


Otterly Sweet

by Elphen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry John, Apologetic Sherlock Holmes, Blow Jobs, Caring John, Distant Sherlock, Everybody's legal, First Time Blow Jobs, Frustrated John, Hand Jobs, Hurt John, Idiots in Love, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Nervous Sherlock, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Otters, Overwhelmed Sherlock, POV John Watson, Potterlock, Supportive Greg, Supportive John, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Understanding John, helpful Sarah, otter being cute, remorseful sherlock, supportive sarah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: John is a sixth year Gryffindor in love with his best friend, Ravenclaw Sherlock. Even the fact that he knows it's unrequited hasn't helped. He makes an unexpected new acquaintance one day in the form of an otter, which is just as well, since Sherlock starts acting odder than usual and even disappearing at times, without explanation when he shows up again.John worries about that and wonders about the fact that the otter turns up roughly as Sherlock vanishes, even as he's enjoying the companionship of the little creature. The answer isn't anything he expects, certainly, but it might prove what he needs, regardless.





	1. New friends and oddly behaving old ones

**Author's Note:**

> Another soppy title, I know, I couldn't think of one for this.  
> So I found out I had the beginning of this in the stuff I rescued, and thought, rather than post it as one as was my original intention, that I'd give you what I have so far, to tide you over somewhat while I am without a working computer of my own (this is on borrowed time, as it were) and cannot write.  
> Head's up, this is my first time writing a HP-related story (and consequently, also a Potterlock story) that I only ended up writing because of a post on tumblr and a prompt by sherlohomora there. I am not familiar with the conventions of the potterlock 'verse, I have only gone with what I have felt worked, so...yeah :)

John sighed as he settled down at the lake shore, though it was closer to a dropping collapse from fatigue rather than something that was controlled. Despite that, he made sure that he put his broom down with care.

Gods, he was knackered. Every muscle in his body seemed intent on getting to the front of the pain queue to waive their overdue bills at him, to the point that even his eyeballs throbbed.

Still, they’d managed to get somewhere. Though really, after five hours of training, they ought to bloody well have, too, going through tactics and manoeuvres until he felt certain he’d be doing at least a few of them in his sleep. Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up on the floor again.

That said, he got the reason for it. They’d been doing rather well and were now about to get the Quidditch Cup, if they could just manage to beat Hufflepuff in the final game.

A few had scoffed, saying that it’d be an easy game to win, but their captain had strongly disagreed, citing the last times Gryffindor had gone up against Hufflepuff and been soundly thrashed. So, they had spent the last two weeks practicing at every opportunity, even though they also had their exams to study for, and that wasn’t even taking social obligations into account.

To be honest, with all of that, he really didn’t have time to sit here, looking out over the surprisingly calm waters of the lake, just taking a bit of a break. What he ought to do was sprint back up through the castle to the common room and get a head start on his Transfiguration revising, and there was that potion that they all felt sure they’d be asked on that he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of yet. Though Sherlock was adamant that everyone was wrong, that such a potion was far too banal for their N.E.W.T. examination. Then again, he derided the whole process so perhaps he wasn’t all that good to gauge anything on.

Speaking of his tall friend, he hadn’t really seen much of him in the last month, which was odd.

Oh, he still saw him when they had Potions, the Ravenclaws and the Gryffindors together in the cool dungeons. They’d had their Potions lesson together ever since their first year at Hogwarts, one of the very few classes that Sherlock didn’t classify as utterly tedious and boring. Apart from that, though…

Not that Sherlock was ever the type to socialise much, and that was fine. Each to their own and all that. Still, it hurt that he’d started to withdraw from John, too. He’d always considered them to be friends, so he’d thought, he’d hoped, that the lanky git might at least have told him what the matter was.

John sighed again, letting himself fall backwards to lie flat on his back, arms outstretched in the grass that was damp and a little cold but not unpleasant, yet. Just five minutes of quiet out here on rather nice evening wouldn’t hurt. The risk of being disturbed was minimal on this patch, he knew that from experience, and he could really do with the…

He only realised he’d dozed off when he opened his eyes and found something staring at him upside down. Something he certainly hadn’t heard approach.

It was an animal of some sort. In the darkness, it was hard to see exactly what it was, but he could tell it was relatively small and likely a mammal, with its wet nose and long whiskers tickling his nose a bit. More than a bit, actually, and he involuntarily sneezed as the whiskers moved.

Interestingly, and a little puzzlingly, the sudden and slightly explosive sneeze didn’t scare the animal away or even just startle it enough to back off. Instead, it merely wrinkled its nose, which only served to move the whiskers over his nose again, which wrinkled automatically.

“Oi, would you cut that out? I’m going to sneeze again if you keep it up.”

Whether it understood him – after almost six years at Hogwarts, he’d no longer be surprised at almost any sort of creature, and certainly not an animal that understood English – or was just no longer interested in staring down at him, it backed off enough to allow him to sit up.

He turned as he did, so that he could keep it in focus. It showed absolutely no indication of wanting to bolt, however, and merely stood staring back at him, calmly, seeming to access him.

It was an otter. Not that he was any sort of expert on weasel family, but there wasn’t really much to doubt, even in the gathering dark. The shape of the body was rather distinct as was the length of it, the whiskers stuck out clearly, and the white underbelly seemed to glow a bit in the darkness.

“In the way, am I?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “You could just go around, you know.”

The otter fixed him with a thoroughly unimpressed look, clearly discernible on its relatively small face. So, it must have understood him. Perhaps not too surprising, giving the clearly intelligent look in its eyes. Okay, that was fine. As long as it wasn’t hostile, he didn’t mind. Care of Magical Creatures was one of the subjects he really liked and usually did rather well in.

It moved closer to him, its whiskers twitching as it quite plainly sniffed the air. He tried to move out of its way, regardless of its expression, but it followed him. When it was right up next to his knee, it rose onto its hind legs and placed its front paws on the knee.

It looked at him inquiringly, then made a tiny, chirping sort of noise that somehow also sounded questioning.

“What? What do you want?”

It repeated the noise, then bent its head. Closer, he could see that its fur was darker than the other otters he’d seen, even considering that it was somewhat damp from an obviously recent swim.

“You want to be petted, is that it?” he asked, dubiously. Another, more impatient-sounding noise while the claws dug in. “Ow! Don’t do that. Hold your horses, you ungrateful bastard, I’ll help you, okay? Come here.”

He scooped the otter up, slightly surprised at it letting him manhandle it like that.

Once he got it close, he could see just what the problem was; a small barb, from some sort of other animal, was embedded just behind its ear. No, it wasn’t quite embedded, but it was deep enough that it couldn’t easily be shaken out.

“Right. Hold on. I’m just going to put you down for a moment while I get my gloves off. Oi, don’t chirp at me, mate. I can’t do fiddly work like that with my gloves on, can I?”

He got them off and placed them beside his broom. The otter had in the meantime climbed onto his thigh and was standing upright, the impatient look back while the claws dug into his sleeve.

Okay. Removing a barb from an animal. He could do this. No problem at all.

The otter was astonishingly still as his fingers moved carefully around the area, searching for the point of entrance as well as the best way of getting it out without causing any undue harm to the creature. Even when he got hold of the barb, tired fingers making the thing more difficult, it stayed perfectly immobile, though impatience and hurt radiated from it. Not fear, though, despite its small noises, which was another interesting point.

He eased it out ever so carefully, unaware that he was making small soothing noises of his own to counter the sound the otter made.

“There, got it!” he said as he finally pulled it out.

He’d probably expected the animal to bolt after that, or at least get a good way away from him, now that he was no longer needed. That would make sense.

It didn’t. Instead, after pulling back to look at him for a moment, it pushed its head under the hand not holding the barb and pressed upwards.

John gave an amused snort at that. “Oh, so now you want to be petted? You’re not especially feral, are you?” A thought struck him. “You’re not somebody’s pet, are you?”

It was rather unlikely but perhaps someone could’ve gotten a dispensation from the standard toad, cat or owl you were allowed to bring. That or someone could’ve transformed their toad into an otter, of course, or the other way around, to get it in under the radar.

He got another unimpressed look for his trouble, visible through his fingers. How on earth did it manage to level that clear a look at him time and again? Not to mention, it looked a little familiar, a little like Sherlock, in fact. A lot like his friend, really.

He put that thought aside firmly. Sometimes, everything seemed to remind him of Sherlock, one way or another. More than sometimes, to be honest, and often enough, it caused certain reactions in him, ranging from his heart throbbing to…other things throbbing.

Although he’d been trying to get over his serious crush since he’d first become aware of it around the middle of their last term in the fifth year, he’d so far been unsuccessful. Even knowing that it would never be reciprocated, as Sherlock never showed even the slightest bit of interest in anybody, had not managed to put a stop to it.

One of those attempts to get over it had involved trying to date someone else, but it had fizzled out into nothing after a few months. It had been her that had ended it, though, taking him to an unused classroom and saying that she was sorry, but she was really in love with someone else. When he’d said it was alright because so was he, she’d stared at him for a moment and they’d broken down into a fit of giggles that had taken care of most of the awkwardness.

They’d remained friends afterwards, John quite happy to hear about her crush and she equally understanding.

He got another push against his hand, signalling that his pause hadn’t been appreciated. “Alright, I get it. Bossy little bugger, aren’t you? Your fur is really soft, though, feels nice.”

After a while of silent petting, which the otter seemed quite content with, John stilled his hand. “Right, that’s it, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an essay that’s due tomorrow.”

He got an irritated chirp for that and the otter curled up in his lap, rather demonstratively. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really…I really don’t want to get detention again, so I need to get back. You can tag along, if you like, but I can’t stay.”

He started to get up, then stopped, sighed and scooped the animal up in his arms. It again didn’t protest but its dark, intelligent eyes watched him intently. Expectantly, almost.

John’s eyebrow rose. He didn’t say anything, though, not even when it crawled up his arm to settle around his neck, its weight more than he thought it’d be. That said, it wasn’t unpleasant.

“Comfortable, are we?” he asked, a little archly, and got what he’d describe as a satisfied chirp of agreement in reply. “Right, then. Let’s go, shall we?”

* * *

He was nearly to the main stairs of the castle when the warm weight around his neck suddenly shifted. The otter’s head rose from its position on his clavicle, its nose having pressed against the side of his neck, to look around.

It made a decidedly distressed noise but before John could get a gauge on what the matter was, it had hopped off his shoulder, landed on the ground and run off, without as much as a backwards glance.

Well, ta for that!” he called after it. To be honest, though, he couldn’t say he’d expected anything else, and it had been nice to have it accompany him back.

As he climbed the stairs back up to the Gryffindor tower, he decided that he wasn’t going to tell anyone about his little run-in. It was hardly fascinating stuff, meeting an otter, even if it had seemed strangely compliant, if not outright domesticated.

On top of that, and perhaps more importantly, he didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone. It was his little experience, which he’d enjoyed.

_Not even Sherlock?_ an inner voice asked. _You know he’s going to deduce it anyway, from the way you’re holding your shoulder or a stray hair or something. So why not say it?_

Because this was his thing. Sherlock did plenty of things that he didn’t invite John in on or even told him about it, so a little turnabout was only fair! Besides, he would only scoff and call it boring.

In any case, he had a life outside of Sherlock and that was an end to it.

The slight acidic burn it left at the back of his throat, he firmly ignored.

* * *

The next time he saw Sherlock, it was when they next had a class together, two days later, on a Monday. It wasn’t Potions, that was later in the week. This was Herbology, a subject which John had enjoyed from the first year.

What was strange was that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his friend all weekend. Normally, they’d at least spend half the weekend together, doing whatever. Even at this time of year, with practice and revising and everything, they’d meet up after lunch and dinner, though more often than not, Sherlock wouldn’t have attended.

Not this time, though, and when he’d gone to ask the other Ravenclaws in their year, they swore none of them had seen him, either. Not that a lot of them cared, but that was hardly the point.

He hadn’t shown up at the start of class, either, and John had started to get a little worried when, twenty minutes in, he’d appeared among the throng of students gathered around the bonsai-sized trees they were supposed to peel the root bark off without chopping the roots themselves off.

The professor had spotted him immediately; Sherlock had hit a few growth spurts in the last two years and now stood taller than most of his peers, which didn’t help his reputation of being haughty one iota. It wasn’t as though he minded, however, quite the opposite – except for moments when he wanted to blend in or sneak about. Such as now.

“That’s five points off Ravenclaw for tardiness,” she announced, raising her eyebrows pointedly at him. “Just because you do well in my class, Holmes, doesn’t mean I take any more kindly to wilful tardiness from you than from anyone else.”

“Wasn’t wilful,” Sherlock mumbled. Thankfully, it seemed that John was the only one who heard him as he came to a stop beside the shorter boy.

He gave the body, which was more compact than was usual for their age though it couldn’t be called burly, a once-over and licked his lips. Both gestures went unnoticed by the blond, who was bent over the task they had to do.

“Whatever it was, you’re lucky she didn’t deduct more points off you for it,” he said quietly as worked. “You know her.”

“Don’t care about points,” Sherlock shot back. He did find the right equipment to help John with his task, though. The roots they were handling had quite a lot of properties.

“I know you don’t, but your house does. They’ve won it two years running now. Come on, Sherlock, they’re not exactly fond of you as it is. Don’t give them more ammo.”

“They’ve only won it because of me in the first place, so I don’t see the issue.”

“You wouldn’t, no,” John grumbled.

In a way, and it wasn’t too good a way, he was aware of that, it was flattering that he was the only friend the younger Holmes had, inside or outside Hogwarts. It made him feel special, in ways both good and not. Or less…platonic, at least, as he had to admit under the covers of many a night.

But he also recognized that to have only the one friend wasn’t exactly healthy. Sherlock would probably say that he didn’t need any more than that. Hell, John wasn’t always sure whether the brunet even considered them friends, at least not consciously so. He certainly never said it out loud.

On the other hand, they’d been close for almost six years now, much closer than most other friends John had, especially given they were in different houses. More than that, Sherlock actively sought John out outside of class and, while he called the blond an idiot often enough, wasn’t averse to doing schoolwork alongside him and even help him out from time to time.

Whatever Sherlock would term it, and regardless how else he thought of him, John considered the taller teen his best friend.

Because of that, and leaving selfish concerns aside, John wanted his friend to have more than the one friend. He just had no idea of how to go about it without Sherlock rejecting it outright, with having a snit thrown into the mix, too.

"John?”

_You could always introduce him to your new friend, couldn’t you?_

Yeah, that’d go down _swell._

“John!”

He saw the hand move past his eyes a moment before he registered the stabbing pain in his hand. In his mental absence, he’d loosened his grip on the root enough for it to move and stab him in the soft tissue between thumb and forefinger.

It hurt. Quite a lot but for the moment, he couldn’t focus on that. Not when his field of vision was filled with a pale face frowning in what might be called worry. More than that? It was hard to tell.

Then the pain felt stretched, as it tended to when the thing that caused the pain was removed. Felt like caramel strings of burning heat pulling through him. Except…there was a cool sensation surrounding the burn, one that didn’t feel like a spell.

He looked down and saw bony fingers pulling at the root, gently but firmly so as to get it out as quickly as possible with as little pain as possible.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to – “

“Shut up and stand still. I’ve almost got it.” Almost as soon as he said it, he got it the rest of the way out.

“Right, what’s going on here, then?” the professor said, bustling her way up to them. She took one look at the scene, her face pinching together. However, she didn’t make any comment on it, other than to send John off to the hospital wing once the root had been removed. Since the root had been exposed, there was risk of infection that couldn’t be easily fixed, so off he went.

Sherlock went with him. He hadn’t exactly been told to or asked but on the other hand, nobody tried to stop him as he more or less pulled John along with him.

“Sherlock, you really don’t need – “

“If you’re determined to be an idiot,” Sherlock said as he kept pulling, “you need someone to balance the scales and make sure you’re okay.”

“That’s rich, coming from you after this weekend!” The words were out before he could stop himself.

The taller teen froze in his tracks for a moment. His eyes flickered down, assessing. “You weren’t hurt this weekend.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“No more than I usually am during Quidditch practice, no, but you didn’t know that, did you? I could’ve fallen off my broom and cracked my skull open for all you knew!” _Or cared._ He managed somehow not to say those last words out loud.

The brunet stiffened further at that. Was he suddenly a little paler? Not easy to see in the sparse light of the castle, even in the morning. All the same, John felt abruptly guilty, strong enough to win out over his stubborn streak for a change.

“Look, nothing happened,” he said, trying for conciliatory. “I’m fine, and I can handle myself, without a chaperone.”

“Clearly you can’t.”

That fanned the flames slightly. “That was one moment’s inattention, Mr. I’ve-got-burns-and-scars-all-over-my-hands.”

“One moment is all it takes.”

“Sherlock…”

The younger Holmes didn’t look at John as he started walking again, pulling the blond along with him. “It wasn’t as though I didn’t intend to be there,” he mumbled.

John wanted to ask more about that, but he knew the expression on Sherlock’s face. Even if he asked, he wouldn’t get an answer. So, for the time being, he held his tongue.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey took one look at his hand, then looked up at the pair of them and tutted.

“You’re lucky it was pulled out so quickly. The juices have gotten in, though, but not too deep yet. Are you in any pain?”

“No.” Strangely enough, he hadn’t felt anything in his hand since the root was pulled.

“Hit the nervous system, too, then.”

She didn’t say anything else as she bustled out of the room, leaving the two boys alone for a moment. They didn’t speak in the interim, but Sherlock didn’t relinquish the grip he had on John’s arm.

Right, then, sit down on the bed,” Madam Pomfrey commanded when she returned, a small, oddly shaped bottle in her hand.

John did, the angle slightly awkward due to the grip on his arm. Holding out his injured hand for the nurse, he looked up at the other boy, but the brunet looked straight ahead of him, refusing to meet the blond’s gaze.

The angle and the proximity meant that John could see something he hadn’t spotted earlier; the area behind Sherlock’s ear was red and swollen. It didn’t look infected, but it was hard to say anything more about it without closer examination.

A mental image flashed through his mind at that, of the otter with the barb behind its ear.

He dismissed it as pure coincidence, though. Sherlock had probably just been careless with something or other, again.

_So had the otter._

Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

“Ehm, Madam Pomfrey?”

“Hold still,” she said, though not unkindly. “If this gets on parts other than the injury, then – “

He inclined his head. “But Sherlock needs to be seen to, too.” That seemed more important than his own injury.

She glanced up, following his line of sight, then pursed her lips. “Minor injury, will only take a moment to fix. You, on the other hand, is in for a painful half an hour. The juices of the root have burned a good deal of muscle in here.”

“You can’t do it with a spell?”

“Not if you want to keep full functions of your hand. Now, hold still, I said.”

As the concoction from the bottle was poured into the wound, John tensed quite involuntarily. It wasn’t that he was unused to pain or that he couldn’t handle it, but this felt as though someone had created the tiniest of tailors and sent him down into his hand to manually resew every muscle, tendon and nerve that the juices had managed to burn away, every piercing of his needle as he worked sending sharp tendrils of pain radiating through John’s entire arm.

He only realized he was grabbing onto Sherlock’s arm in turn now when he heard the smallest of hisses from up above.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said before he could say anything. “Don’t worry about the ear, either. I’m Mr. I’ve-got-burns-and-scars-all-over-my-hands after all, aren’t I?” The smile he gave was tight.

John blinked at that, through the pain.

Okay, so they argued and called each other names. That was normal for friends, true, but he had yet to see that tight expression on his friend’s face, at least directed at him.

What was the matter?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to be enigmatic, or rather confusing and annoying, leaving John frustrated and worried. He has another encounter with the otter, which only adds to his confusion. Confronting Sherlock about his behaviour is hindered by an unexpected problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...wow, thank you guys, that was an unexpectedly encouraging and heartwarming response to the first chapter! You're awesome!  
> I have really sweet friends, too, as I was able to bum the computer off my friend for a few hours more and got this out. I owe her a cake, she says. So...yay cake?

They left the hospital wing not that long afterwards, just in time for people to start filing past them to get down to the Great Hall in time for lunch. Though he was normally more than hungry by this point of the day, what with a growing body and more than enough on his plate, as it were, John didn’t particularly feel up to eating right then.

Besides, he was plenty occupied with just keeping up with Sherlock; in contrast to when they’d gone up to the hospital wing, the taller boy was no longer sticking to him. Rather, he was pushing through the crowd, relatively easily, without any glances backwards to see whether John was keeping up.

Alright, so that wasn’t exactly uncommon, in and of itself. In fact, it could almost be called modus operandi for Sherlock. Still, there was something about the way he did it this time that felt distinctly different and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t bother trying to call after him. Not only would it be difficult to be heard in the crowds, he was as likely to ignore it if he didn’t want to acknowledge it, regardless of whether he could hear it or not.

That said, it was an uncomfortably clear difference in behaviour, and the cause must be what had happened at the hospital wing. But why was that? All he’d done was call attention to an injury. How was that wrong? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done that before, either.

It wasn’t long before he’d lost sight of him of him completely.

He was grabbed by the arm when he reached the entrance to the Great Hall. “What the hell happened to you?” one of his fellow Gryffindors said. “I was at the other end of the greenhouse, I couldn’t see before you were whisked away by the pompous arse.”

“Don’t call him that.” The words were out of John’s mouth before he even had time to think about it. He meant them, though.

“Oh, lay off. He is – look how he swanned into class. If I was that late for class, I sure as hell would’ve gotten more than five points off.”

“Leave it,” John growled, decidedly annoyed now. He pulled his arm back. To be honest, he wanted to pull away entirely but refrained.

He didn’t follow the others in for lunch, though, earning him odd looks from his friends. They didn’t comment or follow him, but he could see the question in their eyes as he walked, closing in on stomped, out onto the grounds.

He just needed some air and to get away from… _people._ Especially tall, lanky, gorgeous, confusing berk-twats.

 

* * *

 

They had no classes together after Herbology, not until Potions and that was a few days away. Normally, that didn’t matter but Sherlock failed to show up at any of the places or times they usually met.

He should’ve been easy to spot in amongst the crowds, but John couldn’t see him and by the end of Tuesday, he’d gone from worried to a mixture of worry and anger. Mainly anger, though.

Fine. If he was going to be enigmatic, then he could damn well do it to his heart’s content. It wasn’t any of John’s concern what he got up to. Or so he firmly told himself.

He had another Quidditch practice on Tuesday. It wasn’t quite as long and strenuous as the earlier one on Saturday, but he threw himself into it with gusto, almost hunting down whoever had hold of the Quaffle and hurling it at the goal, which earned him equal amounts of cheers and glares. The glares were mainly from the teammates he almost hit.

As he walked backed from the pitch, he thought he saw something running through the grass to the side. He didn’t pay it much mind until something collided with the back of his leg, quite harshly. It didn’t knock him over, of course, as it had nowhere near the mass and he wasn’t that surprised, but it was enough to get him to stop and look down at what it was.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said, recognising the small body after only a moment. “Live by the Quidditch pitch, do you? Or are you trying for the animal rugby team?”

He got a chirp in response as it moved around from his calf to his shin, one which held an odd mix of impatience and apology at the same time.

It ought to feel weird, thinking you could pick out actual _tone_ in the voice of an animal. Then again, he’d pretty much been surrounded by weird ever since he first boarded the Hogwarts Express after getting his letter of admission, hadn’t he?

Sighing, he sunk down into a squat, which meant the otter could reach his knee and it did, planting its front paws on the cap. It gave something closer to a mew as it looked up at him, its eyes like black pearls. Then, still looking at him, it plonked its head down between its paws, its chin and a good portion of its throat resting heavily on the knee.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help smiling a little at the display, which looked nothing so much as a dog attempting to plead or apologize. In short, it looked quite out of place on the little fellow.

“Oi, what’s all this, then?” he asked, gently. His hand rose to stroke across its fur but stopped before it made contact. “What have you got to apologize for? Or is that just pleading? I haven’t got anything edible to give you.”

The otter chirped again, with the same inflection. It seemed to have taken his words as permission or something, because it heaved itself up onto his thigh, then, once it had a good foothold on his trousers, began to move upwards.

“Hey, hang on,” he protested. “I’m not a climbing board, you overgrown rat.”

It didn’t deter it for a moment, however, so he reached out and grabbed it. Though it writhed and struggled in his grip, he managed to hold firm and bring it up in front of his face as he stood up simultaneously, trying to ignore how nice its fur was to touch when it was dry. Once there, it stilled, only to fix him with a thoroughly unimpressed look.

_How does it do that?_ he wondered. _I swear, it’s more expressive than some people I’ve known._

Not that that was overly difficult, granted, but still.

“I _said_ , I’m not a climbing board. I don’t believe for a moment that you can’t understand me, I can see you do, you just chose to ignore me.”

That seemed oddly familiar, but he pushed the thought away. In love though he had to admit that he probably was, he ought to not let Sherlock Holmes occupy his every thought. Sherlock wasn’t interested, in John or anyone else, romantically or sexually, and that was an end to it. At least, if he wanted it not to be an end to their friendship as well. Which was the last thing he wanted, quite frankly, and for that, he could deal with some unrequited feelings. He could.

The otter looked at him pleadingly again and John couldn’t help but sigh heavily. He was tired, he was drained, he ached, and he just wanted to go back to the castle and get some rest.

When he tried to lower the otter, intent to send it on its way and just get home, however, it started squirming again, the pleading in its eyes strengthening, aided by the small chirps it kept emitting.

It stopped when he raised it back up.

He sighed again. “What is it you want, exactly? You haven’t got any barbs, burs or other problems that I can see, so why exactly have you sought me out specifically? There were plenty of others on the pitch you could’ve followed if you just wanted to bother someone. So, why me, you furry worm?”

It didn’t answer. Of course, it couldn’t, being an animal and all, but it didn’t even try through an expression. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but it was the same look as before, so it wasn’t much of a help, really.

So, he put it down. Once he did, however, it looked at him for a moment over its shoulder. Then it spun around and scurried up his leg before he had much of a chance to react.

Once it had claimed a position perched on his shoulder, its tail resting against his back, it looked down at him and mewed rather than chirped.

Nevertheless, John wasn’t particularly amused.

“You’ve got four legs, you can move faster than I can, you stupid thing. Are you just that averse to exercise or what?”

It chirped again and nuzzled against the side of his face. It did again and again, chirping quietly all the while.

Despite himself, John chuckled. He reached behind and up to gently scratch the creature behind its small, round ears. As he did so, he noted that the dark brown fur felt oddly curly, which he didn’t think was normal for otter fur, though he had to admit, he’d paid more attention in Care of Magical Creatures than he had in…primary school? Kindergarten? When had they discussed forest animals?

_It’s not a forest animal, John,_ came Sherlock’s voice in his head _. It’s a semiaquatic mammal, there’s a distinct difference._

_Oh, shut up, it doesn’t matter._

“Well, I’m going back to the castle. Suppose you can come along, if you like. You’re thankfully not that heavy.”

He picked up his broom and walked towards the castle, otter still perched. It kept talking to him and nuzzling him. It could appear merely friendly but there seemed to be an element of apology to it, too, again like a pet that knows it’s done wrong and is seeking forgiveness.

What on earth it was seeking forgiveness _for,_ however, he had no idea.

He started to talk back about halfway through the walk, quite aware of just how daft he appeared, and was surprised to learn that it paused to let him, then chirped as if in answer. It was nice, really. Clingy it might be, but the otter really wasn’t bad company, and its fur was nice and soft.

Somewhat interestingly, though, it didn’t jump down and disappear the moment they got close to the castle. Instead, it stayed firmly perched, its head suddenly up and alert for any sign of other creatures.

“Well, then, I suppose this is where we part.” There was no movement. He shrugged the shoulder it sat on. “Come on. Off.”

It looked at him for a long moment, seemingly calculating something or other. Then it bent its head and stuck right beneath the collar of his robes, so it could crawl underneath.

“Oi, what are you doing? Get out of there. Ow. Ow! Stop!”

It didn’t obey but merely burrowed further, the fabric bulging as it moved. He tried to reach down after it but was unsuccessful. It wasn’t helped by the fact that it wasn’t the roomiest of robes and he was no contortionist. Furthermore, quite apart from not wanting to drop his broom and therefore only having the one hand free, he didn’t really fancy rummaging in his shirt or similar while out in the open like this. It would just figure he’d end up with detention or something, the week he was having.

He looked down into the opening. “Comfortable, are we?” he asked, slightly archly. It chirped in reply and snuggled in.

As he heard someone’s footsteps, the decision was made for him. He cursed under his breath, mainly directed at the furry critter making itself comfortable against his stomach. Which was nice, in the sense that the fur was soft and warm and all that, but still, he didn’t ask for this.

Perhaps he could let it out at some point…no, he couldn’t. There was still Mrs. Norris to consider and he wasn’t sure of the outcome when an otter met a cat, especially not one like Mrs. Norris.

_Why don’t you just get it out here and now and dump it?_

It was a valid question, and he didn’t really have a valid answer. Perhaps it had something to do with just how comfortable it looked. No, rather, how _content_ it looked, giving the impression that it had finally found somewhere wonderful to be.

Whatever it was, it ended up with him walking as briskly yet nonchalantly as possible all the up to the Gryffindor common room. The otter chirped and wiggled slightly but was mostly quiet all the way up there.

Of course, since he wanted the common room to be deserted, it wasn’t. Thankfully, though, it was only two seven years deep in their books and a couple of second years engrossed in their game of wizard’s chess. While he knew all of them, it wasn’t enough that he had to make conversation with them. Perhaps, if he was quiet and quick, he could just about…

John!” someone called just before he made it to the stairs. He turned to see Greg Lestrade, a seventh year, waving at him from one of the good chairs. John, come ‘ere.”

With another sigh, he trudged over, knowing that his suddenly bulging stomach was going to be commented on. He just hoped that his friend wouldn’t make so much of it that anybody else took notice.

Greg grinned at John as he came to a stop beside the chair. “Hey, how did it – what the hell, mate, did you decide to raid the kitchen on the way back from training?” His gaze slid meaningfully down to John’s midsection.

Ehm…not exactly.” He grimaced, which got the older boy’s attention even more. Be quiet about it, though, would you?”

Sure, sure, of course. What is it?”

John waved him to an upright standing position. Then, feeling foolish, he pointed down the collar of his shirt.

Greg frowned but nevertheless looked down. His eyes widened slightly at the sight but thankfully, he didn’t make any loud noises.

When he looked up, his eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. “What on earth possessed you to get an otter? Don’t think they’ll allow you to have two animals, anyway.”

“I’m perfectly happy with Gladstone, thank-you-very-much. He’s a reliable friend, that owl, unlike the rest of you lot.”

“So, what’s this, then?”

“He followed me home.”

“And so, you thought you’d keep him, eh?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

John grumbled, casting a glance around to make sure there was still nobody watching. “Bugger thought it a grand idea to turn the inside of my shirt into a nest. Couldn’t really strip half-naked in front of the entrance, could I? And then there’s Mrs. Norris to think of, too.”

Greg groaned. “Don’t remind me. Alright, so you decided to play the good Samaritan. You aren’t going to let it run around here wherever it pleases, are you?”

“I can’t guarantee that, but I was thinking, since it’s so keen on making a nest, that I might bring it up with me.” It sounded even more stupid when he said it out loud compared to when it was just in his head.

“What, in your bed?” Greg asked, inadvertently raising his voice. John glared at him for that, and he grimaced and made sure to lower his voice. “You’re going to sleep with an otter in your bed?”

Neither of them seemed to have consciously registered that at the last sentence, a low but intense chirp sounded, one that might be described as panicked surprise.

“Just take the mickey, why don’t you?”

“Come on, mate, it’s bloody absurd!” Greg laughed.

“It is, but what the hell else do you propose I do, as things stand?” John hissed. The anger was as much directed at himself as anything.

Greg sobered. “Point. I wasn’t trying to diss you, I just…well, you can admit, it’s a bit unexpected.”

“Says the guy who’s grown up in a magical family. But yeah, you’re right.” He didn’t mention it wasn’t the first time he’d encountered the otter. It didn’t seem like it’d improve his argument, really. Too tired to think about it. “I’m going to go to bed and if it turns out a spectacularly bad idea…well, you can have my broom.”

Greg snorted a laugh. “Cheers.”

 

* * *

 

The otter remained worryingly quiet for the rest of the trip up to the room John shared with his fellow sixth years, only the warm weight against his stomach reassuring him that he was indeed still lugging around a furry animal under his shirt.

Once he got there, he saw that everyone else had thankfully gone to bed already, or at least, they were under the covers. What they did under the covers was nobody’s business but their own.

He hoped that would count for him as well.

Sitting down on the bed, he felt the otter move. He only felt the tiniest of pinpricks against his stomach as it did so, however, as though it was trying its best not to hurt him. It poked its head through the collar opening, chirping quietly when the head emerged, whisking twitching.

“Quiet, you,” he hissed. “You’ve brought me into this whole mess, the least you can do is be a little bit accommodating.”

It seemed to acquiesce, in that it didn’t chirp or mew again or even scuttle about. Instead, it let itself be carefully manoeuvred the rest of the way out through the collar, John’s hands as gentle as possible in their grip around it.

He placed it on top of the covers, glaring at it to dare it make noise as he as quickly as possible shuffled out of his clothes. As he reached for his pyjamas, he thought he noticed that it kept watching him with what could almost be described as rapt. That couldn’t be right, though, as there would be absolutely no reason for it to do so.

It felt curiously familiar, that intense, penetrating stare that followed him. He suddenly felt exposed, even as he put clothes back on, and trying to dismiss that thought wasn’t entirely successful.

Once clad in his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, he pushed at the covers while at the same time picking up the ruddy creature, which let out a small squeak.

“Oh, don’t fuss, I’m not going to use you as a teddy bear, you furry worm,” he muttered. “You’re staying above the covers. I’m just making sure you don’t make a lot of noise by smacking onto the floor. What am I saying? You’re probably going to as soon as I lie down.”

However, his suspicion was to be proven very wrong; it moved to the end of the bed while he got in, but once he was settled, it, after looking at him for a moment, moved back up the bed, walking only on him. It came to a rest only when it had reached his stomach, where it chirped very quietly and decided to lay down facing at him, then stretched out and closed its eyes.

_Well, alright, fair enough. Suppose that works, really, doesn’t it?_

He fell asleep quite soon after that, mind and body both well exhausted by everything, the weight of the otter a welcome warmth on top of him.

 

* * *

 

When he woke the next morning, the first thing he did, after clawing his way back to wakefulness and noticing that there was no longer a weight, however light it was, on top, was to look for it. He tried to do it as surreptitiously as possible, so as not to alert his friends if they hadn’t spotted it themselves.

However much he looked, though, he couldn’t locate it. Nor did anyone mention having seen it in the general morning frenzy to get a bunch of teenage boys reasonably dressed, which wasn’t pretty at the best of times, and so he walked to breakfast with an odd lump lodged in his heart.

Not because he was sad to see it go.

Okay, so that wasn’t quite true. It was more accurate to say he was surprised it had stayed after it no longer seemed keen on being a bother to him. It had been nice, to have it there with him, especially given everything. But he knew also that it was a wild animal and that he held no sway over how long it stayed, which he should know and then not be bothered by.

That it had just disappeared without any warning and no trace of it, either, though, meant that he couldn’t shake the worry something might’ve happened to it.

Not that he’d think his fellow sixth year Gryffindors would harm it – he’d known them for years, after all, they wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t quite vouch for the rest of the Gryffindors, of course, but he didn’t think there were any animal abusers among them. At least, he fervently hoped not.

Even without any foul play, though, there was still a risk that it could’ve hurt itself by accident. Hell, he had evidence for it having hurt itself before, it wasn’t that big a leap.

_Great. As though I didn’t have enough to worry about as it is, without having two idiots who are incapable of taking care of themselves into the mix, too, and only one of them has the excuse of being a dumb animal._

He picked at his breakfast, not really noticing what he was eating or whether he was even putting something down his throat, when someone nudged his shoulder, hard. He almost spilled the spoonful of the porridge he was eating.

Annoyed, he looked up, ready to snap something at whoever it was.

It was Greg.

“Hey, alright, keep your hair on,” he said, taking a step back and holding up his hands. “No need to glare at me like you’re trying the nonverbal body bind spell. What’s got your knickers in a twist this morning? Apart from Sherlock, of course.”

He slid onto the bench and began to grab some breakfast himself, not having to hurry as much since he had a free period first thing that morning.

“Nothing,” John said, returning his attention to his breakfast. Well, at least back to picking at it.

“Right.” Greg seemed unperturbed by his mood. “So, it’s got nothing to do with you no longer bulging at the middle?” He lowered his voice as he spoke, though, so nobody would, hopefully, pick up on it. Something which John was oddly grateful for, even though he knew nobody would care.

The rumour mill had plenty to use for grist, what with that Slytherin girl from the fifth year dating a Gryffindor girl from seventh year and the boy who almost got expelled from school for setting off a stink hex in the prefect’s bathroom. They said it was designed to only go off when the tub was halfway full, so that it would take a while to locate, and they also claimed that it was a Hufflepuff who was the culprit.

Not that John cared about gossip, obviously, but when people were determined to talk about loudly before class began, he could hardly ignore it, could he?

“If you must know, I’m worried it’s hurt,” he said, after downing another spoonful of porridge, laden with honey. If it tasted of anything, he didn’t notice. “It was gone by the time I woke but the door was closed.”

“It could’ve slipped out when somebody went for a night time jimmy, mate,” Greg said, reasonably. “Probably got fed up with the stenches of you lot, waited for its chance and slinked out.”

“Yeah, probably.” He knew Greg was more than likely right and it did help assuage it, but not entirely.

“Don’t worry about it, mate, it’ll be fine. Now, you got any headway with your training? I hear the Hufflepuffs are gearing up for something spectacular, to be ready to beat you. Heard they’re getting pretty good odds.”

John snorted. “You did, did you? Thought you didn’t bet?”

“I don’t, you know I don’t,” Greg said, sounding only slightly offended. “But you hear things, you know? Come on, have they got a chance?”

“If we’re up to snuff, they shouldn’t have.”

“But…?”

Checking the time, John stood up a little hurriedly. “Greg, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got classes, unlike some, and I don’t need to have points deducted for being late.”

“Oi, don’t just bloody well scarper!” Greg called after him, but John ignored him. He had a long way to go to get to his first class, and he was running late as it was.

How he managed to get to class on time, let alone get through the whole day, he had no idea. He certainly didn’t retain much of the lessons, and even his notes weren’t much help, half-finished scribbles that made little sense. His only saving grace was that he could afford to skip a bit because they were subjects he did well in. Hopefully. Or perhaps he could borrow some notes from someone later. Asking Sherlock would…

No, he wasn’t asking Sherlock. He hadn’t been in the wrong, at any point. If the git was going to sulk over nothing and be a twat in the process, then he could continue to do so for as long as he wanted, as far as John was concerned.

_That’s not true, though, is it?_ said an inner voice. _You’re mainly angry because you’re worried about him. You know he gets lost in his head and has difficulties coming out of it._

_Doesn’t excuse his behaviour_ , he argued back, his mood souring slightly, because he knew it was right. _Doesn’t negate the fact that he can’t bloody well treat me like he’s the only one allowed to take care of me one minute and then completely abandon me the next, both without any explanation!_

_True_ , the voice conceded.

It didn’t help that his hand was still twitching sometimes, even after the potion he’d been given. It had worked, but he’d noticed that despite that, it gave short-lived but felt twitches from time to time in the two days since it had happened. It was something he could work around, and it had lessened, but it was another reminder.

Nevertheless, of course he looked out for signs of his friend throughout the day. Even when they had rows, they’d still see each other, normally. But this time, he couldn’t spot him anywhere, not even with his back pointedly turned.

That wasn’t like Sherlock.

Asking the Ravenclaws, he got even more worried; nobody had seen him since Monday in class. It was small comfort that they sounded worried, too.

As the school day ended without any sign, John decided to take matters into his own hands.

He would find his friend, no matter what it took. And then he'd give him a piece of his mind - and a punch in the jaw, too, for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John could just have opened his shirt and let the otter drop or something similar. But would he, really? And yes, Sherlock's behaviour is stupid and is not okay, I agree, but it will get an explanation. :) Will you be patient with me? I'll, everything willing, have the story finished up in a few more chapters  
> I still like writing Greg - and fed-up John, too, actually :) I'm having fun, at the very least. :)


	3. Where might the ruddy bastard be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts his search for his friend. What will his reaction be when he finds him, though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit I wasn't altogether sure whether to continue this, so thank you to the sweet people who have left feedback and said that you loved it. It does make a difference to me. Such a difference (

His first port of call probably ought to be to the head of Ravenclaw house, to alert them if they didn’t know already. They were fully qualified, after all, and knew the castle better than he or most of the students did, too, probably.

But if he alerted them and Sherlock turned out to be fine and merely sulking somewhere – and John swore under his breath that he would damn well punch the berk if that turned out to be the case – there was a risk, however remote and unlikely it might be, that it wouldn’t merely be points deducted from the house.

Sherlock might be an absolute arse, especially in the last few days, and he was definitely going to have it out with him when he found him, but that didn’t mean John wanted him to potentially be expelled.

Still…searching through the castle would prove almost impossible. He supposed he could search the grounds by taking his broomstick, of course, but the grounds were vast and the likelihood of searching in the wrong place were great, when you didn’t have anything at all to go on.

And as if that wasn’t enough, if something had happened to him, then he didn’t exactly have endless amounts of time to search for him.

What to do, then?

Wait, what about Mycroft? The elder brother who worked for the Ministry of Magic in some very important department. Perhaps he’d…no, they weren’t exactly on the best of terms, as far he’d gathered in the years he’d known the younger Holmes. He wouldn’t have confided in him if he had gone off on his own accord, but…maybe he’d be able to work out where Sherlock was likely to have gone. After all, they were brothers and Mycroft were likely to be as smart, if not smarter, than his brother. Surely, he’d be able to put himself in his place and at least give John some pointers?

That meant he had to find a way to get to talk to Mycroft reasonably quickly. Not so much the technicalities, he knew those, but getting hold of anyone in the Ministry without a prior engagement or connections, which John as a Muggle-born wouldn’t have, was going to be tricky, to say the least.

So, before he did that, he decided to check all the usual places they spend time together as well as where he’d found his friend on previous occasions.

One by one, they turned out to be devoid of lanky brunet, or at least the one he was searching for. He interrogated the people he did find, either at the places or en route, to hear whether they’d spotted a glimpse. Even if they didn’t know him, most students had heard about the arrogant, aloof Ravenclaw who many claimed had been sorted into entirely the wrong house.

There were a few who claimed to have spotted him, but their accounts were contradictory, and they were likely as not mentally manufacturing it trying to help. He knew he had done that a few times in his life.

Having run out of the more obvious hiding spots inside the school and being close to being out after curfew again, he set off back towards Gryffindor tower. As he walked, he contemplated dragging Greg in to help him canvas the school grounds, possibly on broomsticks. Then he remembered that with the vastness of the grounds, they might very well risk still being out searching long after curfew.

“Bloody well wish the summoning charm worked on people,” he muttered, worry warring with annoyance. He resolutely didn’t think about the possibility that Sherlock might have run into the Forbidden Woods. He was an idiot, no doubt, but he wasn’t stupid.

That didn’t stop him from being in something of a foul mood when he returned to the common room. He didn’t feel up to being social, consequently, and went straight up to the dorm room, which was thankfully free of anybody else right then.

The house elves had, as always, done an immaculate job of tidying and cleaning, which was impressive, given the state they almost left things in. Nevertheless, he thought he spotted something on top of his pillow, something that looked oddly familiar.

Moving closer, he reached out a hand to pick it up. Once his fingers touched it, he was in little doubt as to what it was.

A few strands of fur that had come off the otter; if the curly darkness of it hadn’t been a giveaway, then the texture of it clinched it. Why hadn’t that been cleaned up? They normally never forgot anything, so why…?

Perhaps it hadn’t left that morning after all, he realized. Or maybe it had come back after he’d gone? Whatever the case, he felt some of the weight in his chest lift at that. If nothing else, the otter seemed to be alive. That was something, at least.

He was about to dispose of it, though he wasn’t entirely clear on whether that meant a waste bin or his pocket, when something else struck him about the fur. Or rather, something that had struck him earlier bloomed with more meaning.

Those dark curls didn’t just remind him of the otter, they were strangely like the ones he had on more than one occasion longed to run his hands through and see if it really was as soft as it looked.

Come to think of it, he had never seen or even heard of an otter with quite that kind of fur before. Yeah, sure, they probably came in a variety of brown shades, but curly, too?

Then again, he had found it inside the Hogwarts grounds, hadn’t he? What with the centaurs, the grindylows and all the other magical creatures that roamed the grounds and environs, the chances of a smarter than average otter with unusual fur was pretty tame in comparison, wasn’t it?

He settled onto his bed, drawing his legs up so he was cross-legged. Unconsciously, he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his bowed face as he settled in to give it a proper think through, something which he probably ought to have done earlier.

All of that said, the coincidence was just a little too big. That out of all creatures inhabiting the place, he would just _happen_ to run into a creature like that with a distinguishing mark so uncannily like his best friend, would he? Yeah, go on, pull the other one, it’s got bloody bells on.

His fingers flexed in their grip as he growled, beyond annoyed with himself. Why hadn’t he spotted that?

Okay, to be a bit fair on himself, it wasn’t exactly the most logical progression, was it? Apart from his ex, who else knew that he had a crush on Sherlock? Quite a few of their classmates teased him about it, that was true, but that was just normal ribbing for him spending so much time with someone not many others liked.

Even if someone knew, why would anyone care? Sherlock certainly wouldn’t care about being picked on like that, he never did, and nobody dared do anything really offensive to him, not so much because of the family name but because word had gotten around, as it always did in Hogwarts, that his family was something important and unmovable within the Ministry. Not that Sherlock ever used his brother’s name or similar, but still.

As for John, he wasn’t important. He was just a Muggle-born who did fairly alright in class, wanted to be a healer or an Auror when he left school and was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, where he wasn’t even the captain. Of course, you could be bullied for any number of reasons, most of them petty, but this was a bit elaborate for the types of people he knew would bully others.

More than that, it would be downright odd to pick that of all things possible, especially in the world of wizards, to pick on him with, and then do it that way.

So, that was one thing he could dismiss.

What else?

Shapeshifter? Possible, but again, why an otter of all things? It wasn’t frightening or seductive, which, according to their textbooks, were the effects shapeshifter tended to go for. Annoying, yes, and a bit cute, yeah, but not those other two.

Then a thought struck him. Could it be Sherlock himself, transfigured? No, wait, why would somebody do that to him twice, seeing as he’d seen him in human shape after he’d first encountered the otter? That didn’t make sense.

Could he have done it to himself?

Ignoring the fact that the reason for doing so was still spectacularly absent, could you transfigure yourself? Well, he’d seen that done, hadn’t he? But even then, somebody would need to transfigure him back, as he couldn’t very well grasp a wand to do it himself. Apart from that, what would be the point to do it to himself? It wasn’t as though he’d ever expressed any particular fondness of or affinity for semi-aquatic mammals nor had John, to the best of his recollection, at least.

Someone done it to him? Again, theoretically possible, he supposed, but highly unlikely, surely? That ran into the same problem as the prank theory – what would be the ruddy point? Once he could get but twice?

The thought that it was a someone hexing an animal or similar ran in to the exact same problem. Could it just be pure coincidence that the otter had fur reminiscent of his friend’s? Big one, though, considering that it had been John it had sought out, not just once but twice.

That was really the thing, wasn’t it? If it had only happened the once, quite of few of those scenarios could be feasible. Two times, however, that made them all too wobbly to stand anything securely.

What, then? Should he just give it up as a fool’s errand and focus on where the blazers Sherlock had gotten off to? It seemed the smartest move, all things considered.

And yet…he couldn’t quite shake the thought that the otter and Sherlock was connected, somehow. It shouldn’t make sense, it really shouldn’t, but…

Then something in the depths of his memories stirred. It was disjointed, a second rate Frankenstein’s monster sewn together from several snippets of memory; the familiar, almost piercing intelligence in the otter’s eyes, the barb and the corresponding cut behind Sherlock’s ear, the correlating appearances and disappearances of the otter…

It must be Sherlock. Yes, it went against his earlier reasoning but how else did you explain those things, the barb in particular? He’d just _happened_ to hurt himself the exact same place the otter had, while the mammal had been there and Sherlock hadn’t?

Maybe it was a Polyjuice potion that had gone wrong! No, wait, that still ran into the same problems that he’d just dismissed…unless it was intentional, of course.

That would make sense, quite a lot of it, as a matter of fact, if Sherlock wanted to sneak around areas they weren’t supposed to go into, and John knew for a fact that he did. An otter would be small enough not to attract too much attention if it was seen and, in any case, it was likely quick-footed enough to be out of sight before the suspicious person got a second glance at it. Yet at the same time, it was large enough that if it ran into a cat, it was more likely to be viewed as a threat by them and not a snack, and the pet rats wouldn’t disturb it, either.

Of course, changing into an animal rather than another human wasn’t what the Polyjuice was meant for. The likelihood of becoming a full animal rather than just a strange mix-up of human and animal was small, to say the least, and yet…Sherlock was always a cut above the rest in terms of school work, especially when it came to potions. If anyone could manage to pull that off, it would probably be him.

John felt the worry take a backseat to indignant anger. That bloody berk could’ve told him he was mucking about with that sort of thing! Hell, he might have told him that he was planning it. Then they could’ve gone together, out on adventures.

The anger dragged something else along with it; hurt that he’d been excluded. That Sherlock hadn’t even told him what he was up to – Polyjuice took months to brew!

No, wait. He didn’t know that for certain. There could be another explanation for all of this, one that made sense in context even if he couldn’t see it. Sherlock would probably say he wasn’t paying attention to the right thing.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t alter the growing conviction that if he wanted to find Sherlock, he’d do well to track the otter as well. At least there, he would have somewhere concrete to go; the house elves’ quarters below stairs. They might be the ones who’d left those strands of fur behind on his pillows after their cleaning, and even if they hadn’t been, they might be able to shed some light on it, regardless. After all, nobody saw them, either, and so they might have seen the otter running around or point to places it would be able to hide.

It sure beat running a wild goose chase all around the castle – or outing Sherlock’s disappearance to his Head of House.

 

* * *

 

He woke very early the next morning, on purpose, got dressed as quickly and quietly as possible and made his way down to the kitchens, reasoning that the easiest time to catch them was while they were busy making breakfast for the school.

The elves down there was a bit surprised to see a student at this hour but greeted him amiably. They looked a little puzzled when he asked them in turn, as they ran to and fro, whether they had seen an otter with dark curly fur at any point in the last week or two, which he supposed he couldn’t really blame them for. It wasn’t the most normal of asks, after all.

Most of them shrugged a no when he asked, even when he showed them the fur, and he was about to lose hope when one, large-eared even for a house elf, with a pointy nose and a slightly raspy voice, said that he’d seen one matching his description.

“When? Where?” John asked, rising hope making him eager.

“Night-time, sir, when we’ve cleaned out the grates for the evening, and once or twice in the day, too, sir.”

“Recently?”

“Yes, sir. Last night, sir, saw it run in the North Tower, seventh floor.”

Wait, hang on. North tower, seventh floor, wasn’t that where…?

“You mean the Divination corridor?” he asked and got a nod.

Were there other rooms up there it could hide in? He’d never taken Divination himself and so hadn’t had any reason to go up that way at any point in his time at Hogwarts. However, he had heard of the endless groans and complaints about just about every aspect of the class from fellow students who’d picked it in their third year.

None of them had mentioned anything about other rooms, though then again, there wouldn’t really be any reason for them to mention stuff like that. He knew that he wouldn’t have in the same situation.

It could also have used the actual room, of course, and hidden itself amongst the heaps of knick-knacks and gimcrackery that apparently littered the top room. He couldn’t quite work out how it’d manage to get up there if the ladder rope wasn’t down.

Regardless, it was far more concrete a clue than he’d had before, for which he was very grateful.

He told the house elf so and then asked whether it remembered it anywhere else. It said it hadn’t but that it could let him know if it did, perhaps?

John said yes and thanked it again. He ran out of the kitchens and almost got bowled over by the influx of students heading for breakfast before their classes.

He spotted one of his classmates, the girl he’d tried dating before they’d confessed their feelings for someone else and waved her down.

“What is – god, John, are you alright?”

“Fine.” He probably looked a little haggard, seeing as he hadn’t slept much.

“Well, perhaps not really,” he amended a little louder for the benefit of those around them. Then he lowered his voice. “Sarah, can you tell the teachers I’m ill? I need to do something.”

She frowned. “You know they’ll check with Madam Pomfrey whether you’re in the hospital wing or not, and then the jig is up, anyway,” she said, keeping her voice down, too.

He grimaced. “True.”

“What do you need to do?”

He debated telling her only for a moment. She’d understand. “Sherlock’s gone missing. I need to find him – without getting him into trouble over it, too. I think he’s connected with some otter I’ve run into once or twice, and the house elves have seen it, so I need to go before it leaves where it’s probably holed up.”

“An otter?”

“Yeah,” he said, aware of how strange that probably sounded. “Look, I know – “

“One with curly fur?” she interrupted.

“…Yes.”

“Oh, I saw that yesterday! Twice!”

He blinked at her and she dragged him a little away from the river of people. “In the night when I went to…to the ladies’,” she explained, “I was on my way back when I spotted it scurrying down the stairs leading to the boys’ dorm rooms. Then I saw it again later, in Divination class, hiding behind the cushions, peeking over at us all but otherwise keeping quiet and hidden.”

“So, you think it’s still there?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

She bit her lip as she thought about it. “Possibly, yes. We were the last class for Divination yesterday and though I looked for it, I didn’t see it scampering down the rope ladder at any point before it was curled back up and the trap door closed. What, you think it was Sherlock?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “But it’s the best lead I’ve had so far, and it seems connected to him. He disappears, the otter shows up and vice versa.”

“Plus, the coincidence with the curls is a bit of a big one, yeah?” she said, smiling. “I’d best go, if I want to actually have some breakfast before class. You’re going up there, though, aren’t you? Yeah, thought so. I’d probably do the same if it was Tash.”

“How’s that going?” he asked, out of genuine curiosity rather than mere politeness.

“She…she said we could sit together at the next Quidditch game,” she said, blushing slightly. “I asked her.”

He grinned at her. “Congrats!”

She smiled back at him, grateful. “Thanks. Good luck with yours – don’t worry, I’ll think of something to tell the teachers, yeah?”

With that, she hurried off to join the others at the Gryffindor table.

John waited until everyone had filed past him, careful that he didn’t attract attention before the hall was empty again. Then he started up the stairs, moving as fast as he possibly could in his attempt to reach the seventh floor before anybody else got there and let the otter out.

He resolutely didn’t think about the fact that if it was indeed Sherlock, he could’ve, once he’d turned back into human form, easily get down there himself. Though if he’d done so at night, he’d run the risk of being spotted out of bed, and he would in any case be starkers, John doubted that it would play all that heavily on Sherlock’s mind.

_Maybe I’ll at least catch it running past_ , he thought and crossed his fingers. It would figure that he wouldn’t, though.

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t take him too long to reach it, comparatively speaking, since he as a sixth year had considerable experience with the tricks of the castle. Not enough that he wasn’t still capable of getting lost, and he did do that once on his way up. But it was only the once rather than the three or more times he would’ve when he’d started at Hogwarts.

He just hoped that it hadn’t meant that he’d missed it.

Once he did reach it, without panting, he could see that the possibility of there being somewhere else on that floor where it could’ve hidden itself other than the Divination classroom was non-existent. That might, hopefully, mean that his chances were greater.

He couldn’t see any rope ladder hanging down, either, but whether that was a positive or negative sign, he couldn’t say.

Deciding to just get it over with, one way or the other, he drew out his wand, pointed it at the trap door and whispered ‘alohomora’. To his slight surprise, it did in fact open at that, swinging open and, thankfully, dragging the rope ladder with it.

Pocketing his wand, he began climbing the ladder quickly, his heart starting to beat a little faster.

Once he was high enough that he could peek into the room, he did so, noting first off that for it being early morning that high up, it was rather dark. Then he saw that every window was covered by rather heavy-looking curtain, giving the room the feel of a cave somehow, despite its location.

He didn’t see any otter but then again, it was one small creature amongst the throng of knickknacks and other thingamabobs littering the spacious but gloomy room. Finding your own backside in this mess would likely be a bit hard, never mind a small animal.

As he pulled himself all the way up, tensing for small paws to clamber over him in its bid for free any time, he scanned the room briefly, just to make sure. Then he turned and, with a quickly muttered ‘accio’, pointed to the rope ladder, which swung up into his grasp immediately. After that, he shut the trap door very firmly behind him, to further ensure, hopefully, that nothing escaped without his notice, whether it’d be animal- or human-shaped.

Once that was done, he took a closer look around – noting that unlike how it’d been described to him by his classmates, the chairs had been shunted off, as far as it was possible, to one side, making some room on the floor that the marks in the thick rugs and the surrounding dust indicated hadn’t been an old solution – without much luck. Both shapes seemed to be easily hidden inside the overstuffed gloom.

He debated for a moment whether to call out to his friend, whether that would come off as silly and then decided that it didn’t matter. If he was there, he’d then know it was John who’d come up and if he wasn’t, who else was going to know about it?

“Sherlock? Are you there? Hello?” he called as he straightened up into a standing position.

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really expect for anyone, let alone Sherlock, to answer.

Nevertheless, he called again a few more times, keeping a lookout as he walked over to the curtain to let some light in and make it easier to get a proper overview of the room.

As he did so, he thought he spotted something familiar peeking over the top of a Moroccan pouf before it disappeared again.

“Oi!” John shouted when he saw that it was making for the door. He ran after it and though it was fast and probably nimbler than he would be over such a terrain, anger gave him wing, and so he was able to throw himself out and grab it by the scruff of the neck just as it reached the door.

He was rather thankful, then, for the thickness of the rugs.

“Gotcha, you bleeding nuisance!” he growled when he felt sure that he had a proper hold of it. “If you think you can compete with a Quidditch chaser, you’ve got another thing coming.”

In the back of his mind he couldn’t help thinking that this must mean that it wasn’t Sherlock. If it was and he’d used Polyjuice on himself, he should’ve turned back into a human long ago. Unless he had either carried a stock with him, which seemed dubious to say the least, or…no, if he was stuck, then he would’ve been stuck the first time. This wasn’t Sherlock.

He slowly got back up onto his knees and then into a standing position, the journey hampered somewhat by the twisting and writhing otter in his grip.

It chirped and mewed as it did so, though it didn’t sound angry. It almost sounded…pleading? But that didn’t…

He was about to say something, possibly tell it off or maybe to ask it about Sherlock’s whereabouts since it was evidently intelligent and almost certainly connected to the brunet, when he was stopped by the look on its face.

The eyes opened wide and the mouth gaped open. Its breathing was coming hard and fast through its nose and its whiskers twitched. It would’ve been quite the mixture of comical and utterly adorable, if not for the fact that it clearly wasn’t enjoying it.

Its eyes stared into John’s and then it sneezed, violently enough that the shock and force of it combined made him lose his grip on its scruff, much to his utter dismay.

As it fell, however, it seemed to stretch, somehow, and far more than it ought to have been capable of. It also seemed to grow as it stretched, though, from the inside. To say much more than that, however, was almost impossible, at least definitively. It all happened far too fast for his brain to process much more than a feeling of an animal shape growing small and a human shape growing bigger at the same time.

In what simultaneously felt like ages and the blink of an eye, the otter was gone and in its place stood, though swayed was a more accurate term, none other than the guy he’d been searching for, who he’d been worried about and beyond angry with at the same time. The one who had disappeared without a word and now stood there, not two feet away, apparently not at all fazed.

The bastard even had the bleeding cheek to smile slightly and merely say, “Hello, John.”

The Gryffindor didn’t pick up the sheer nervousness in the voice or the eyes nor the way Sherlock fidgeted strongly, which he ought to have. Instead, the anger boiled over and he reacted before he stopped to think.

The punch landed quick, hard and right where John intended. It was strong enough to send Sherlock staggering for a step before he fell backwards onto his arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, this was soon enough for John to figure things out for people asking for that.  
> I liked writing out his contemplations and reasoning.  
> There might be things that don't tally 100% with canon HP. I try to keep it as accurate as possible, given the limitation of me, but there are things we don't know and things that may be tweaked. :)  
> If I can keep the steam up, I think the next chapter won't be too long in coming. Possibly.


	4. Explanations...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has finally found Sherlock. Now he wants an explanation and it had better be a good one. Whether he'll get that is another matter. Whatever the case, it might not be exactly what he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are simply the sweetest readers who leave the kindest feedback and I cannot thank you enough for it. It really helps me keep on writing. I hope I won't disappoint you with this beginning of a conclusion to the story :)

Sherlock looked up at him from his new position sprawled on his back on the floor, gingerly touching the area of his jaw that John’s fist had connected with, eyes wide open as he stared. He didn’t look hurt or surprised that his friend had just hit him, though.

“You?!” John shouted, incredulity bleeding into the welling anger inside of him. “You actually were the otter all along?”

Yes, he’d strongly suspected that the otter _was_ Sherlock rather than something else. He wasn’t that dumb or blind but suspecting and having it confirmed were two entirely different things. It was especially quite a different thing when it looked like he’d been perfectly fine and able to change back and forth on his own, and so the incredulity was more at being proven right than any true surprise.

Sherlock had the grace to look contrite, at least, but it was marred somewhat by the words coming out of his mouth next.

“I would’ve thought you would’ve caught onto that earlier,” he said, as though that fact alone mitigated what he had done.

It didn’t, not by a long shot.

“Oh, you did, did you?” John asked. He didn’t shout this time but the calmness of his voice was as effective as shouting, if not more so. “And you didn’t think that maybe, just _maybe,_ I actually already _had_ , but didn’t want to think that my friend, my best friend, had been climbing all over me, hiding inside my clothes, sleeping on top of me, and, oh yeah, _watching me undress without my consent.”_

“You’ve had your shirt off in front of me before,” Sherlock tried to argue, “and you live – “

“If you say anything along the lines of ‘you live in a dorm room, you should be used to it’, I swear I _will_ deck you again. I know they’re there, I know what they’re doing. _You_ weren’t supposed to be there, Sherlock, that’s like bloody peeking over the stalls in the girls’ bathroom! No, it’s worse!”

To his credit, however small it was, Sherlock did look seriously, genuinely remorseful at that, the colour draining from his face as it seemed to sink in. Then again, as John had learned to his chagrin, he was capable of faking emotions.

Whatever the case, it wasn’t enough to make it magically okay.

“John, I’m sorry.”

“Why should I believe you, Sherlock?” Despite his words, John didn’t feel quite so angry, even though he knew he should do. “After all…all this _crap_ you’ve put me through in the last few days, you think a ‘sorry’ is going to cut it? Why should I believe you’re sincere?”

“Because I didn’t mean to!”

“Pull the fucking other one. Nothing you ever do is uncalculated.”

Sherlock got up onto his knees, annoyingly gracefully for his lanky body, John noted. Once he was, though, he sat as though a marionette doll whose strings had started to sag. He looked at the Gryffindor, then looked down at his hands as though he couldn’t quite face it, face John.

“I…I know I did wrong. I do, John, and I’m sorry. I really am. I just…” he stopped, swallowed and tried again. “I just…just…” It didn’t go any better at the second attempt.

He seemed completely at a loss, his hands trembling. In fact, his entire body seemed to tremble.

It was the loss of articulation that convinced John of the sincerity as much as anything else. Sherlock was never at a loss for words. Oh, he might not say anything but that was a decision on his part, and he wouldn’t have thought of it as a deliberate way to convince anyone, that wasn’t his style.

The blond got down onto his knees, too, and shuffled forward a bit until he was right in front of his friend. He didn’t reach out, though, or anything else. He was still mad at Sherlock, and he had yet to explain himself. Until he did so, and well, John would remain resolutely, deliberately passive.

The Ravenclaw must’ve registered the closeness but he didn’t acknowledge him by looking up or similar. His head almost resolutely stayed lowered.

“I…I wanted to impress you,” Sherlock started, eventually. He still didn’t look up. “By showing you that I could become an Animagus. Entirely on my own.”

A barrage of questions and thoughts slammed into John’s mind at that one statement. The first was _‘does that mean you’re not registered?_ ’, very closely followed by ‘ _do you realize just how many ways in which that could have gone wrong?’,_ ‘ _you’re going to get sent to Azkaban if anyone finds out’_ , and ‘ _you did that on your own? That is impressive’_. Then came _‘wait, when the hell did he find time to do that? That takes bloody ages’_ and _‘how come I never picked up on anything like that?_ ’ as well as quite a few others that weren’t quite as articulate.

One thought only surfaced after all the others had passed, as though it was a flower that had deliberately waited to bloom until the rest in the bed had closed for the night, was ‘He…he wanted to impress me? Not the world, not the school, just…me?’

That thought made something warm bloom inside John’s chest in turn, but he pushed it aside before he could get his hopes up. He might have misheard it or might have misconstrued it. You might want to impress someone for a number of reasons, none of which needed to be romantic.

_Yeah, but this is a rather big one, and he’s never done anything like that before, has he?_

What made it past his lips of all those thoughts were, “Fucking hell, Sherlock, you’re supposed to tell someone when you do that, you’re supposed to be _supervised_. What if it had gone wrong? You know how many people end up permanently stuck half one thing, half the other, and that’s if they’re lucky?”

He expected the answer, if he was being honest with himself, to be something along the lines of ‘I had it perfectly under control’. That would be the usual type of Sherlock line, certainly.

What he got, however, was “I…know. I know that, knew that, but I _had_ to try. I was careful, took every precaution I could think of. It’s taken me almost the entire year to get it right. The mandrake leaf was easy enough, but it was never a visible full moon for two months in a row until a few months ago. Thankfully, we’re in Scotland, I didn’t have to wait long for a lightning storm but the moth…”

“You were the one who broke into the potion ingredients cupboards!” John exclaimed, interrupting. God, there’d been hell after that, almost everyone accused of it, and no culprit was found.

Sherlock just nodded and didn’t explain further.

The silence stretched between them and if he was honest, John felt his anger slowly ebb away in that silence. It didn’t entirely vanish, but it did die down to embers.

“Why, though?” he asked. “There’s so many other ways you can impress people, why choose that one?”

“Not _people_ ,” Sherlock replied. He finally lifted his head to look his friend in the eye, gazing through the mess of curls that was his fringe. “I don’t care about impressing people. I wanted to impress _you_ , John.”

John was somewhat taken aback, not just by the look in those fascinating eyes but by the words as well, not to mention the slightly nervous tone in which they’d been relayed. So, he had heard it right the first time. His heart did more than warm this time, it skipped.

“You often impress me,” he said, voice gone quiet all on its own, “you know that.”

It wasn’t like he didn’t tell Sherlock, either; sometimes he felt as though half his contributions to a conversation were variants of ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’. Gods, he was besotted, wasn’t he?

Sherlock blinked at that, as though there was a problem computing the statement. He then swallowed heavily and averted his gaze. “Not enough,” he mumbled, after a few moments.

“What?” John said, not quite hearing it.

“Those things…weren’t enough. You’re impressed by a lot of things.”

John blinked, mildly affronted. “So, I’m more positively inclined than you are, you pessimistic git. That’s suddenly a problem, is it?”

Sherlock shook his head immediately, curls bouncing as he did so. “No. I…like that about you. That you can see a joy in simple things, things of no consequence.”

“Oi!” John exclaimed and was ignored.

“But I…I wanted to outdo those. Find something that I wasn’t as good at and…” He trailed off.

The most immediate question was still a resounding ‘why?’ but instead, John asked, “And you thought such a dangerous feat a good idea? Why not a…a potion?” Technically speaking, he supposed becoming an Animagus counted as an odd sort of mix between Potions and Transfiguration, but the point still stood.

“You always tell me off when I use potions unethically.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t tell you off with this?” His tone was as much incredulous as it was annoyed and angry.

“Not if I pulled it off,” Sherlock admitted. “Expected something…something else, though, than…”

“Else than an otter?” the blond asked, smiling despite himself. He got a nod. “What, you expected to stroll into class as a panther or something?”

“Not in class. I _told_ you, I didn’t want to impress anyone else.” The surliness in the voice couldn’t quite hide the nerves that had returned. Or had they never gone away?

“But I was the exception?” he queried, voice gone softer again all on its own.

_Easy, John, easy,_ said an inner voice _. Don’t get your hopes up. This is Sherlock we’re talking about, nothing’s every bloody well straightforward with him, is it? There could be any number of reasons, none of which have got to be what you hope for. Bloody well don’t get your hopes up, you still have a year of school left, it’s going to be hell if you lose his friendship because you jumped to conclusions._

But it already was hell, in a way, wasn’t it? Being able to see, but not touch? Carrying a torch for someone you spent all your time with without them being any the wiser?

_Is that preferable to carrying a torch for someone who’d do his best to avoid you?_ the inner voice asked. These last few days haven’t been fun, have they? Imagine another year of that, the only difference being he’s only hiding from you, not everyone else, too.

Gods…

In his muddle of thoughts, he almost missed the reply that Sherlock gave to his question. Only almost, though, for which he was extremely grateful.

“You’re _always_ the exception, John,” Sherlock said. Pale eyes found blue again as he said it, the earnestness in them surprising the Gryffindor.

“Sherlock…” he whispered. He hadn’t realized that they’d both somehow moved closer still until he noticed he could feel the other’s breath on his face.

“I’m sorry for what I did, John, all of it,” Sherlock breathed, still looking him in the eye. They then flickered downwards. “I really am. But…I don’t regret it.”

With that, he leaned forward, pausing when his lips were almost but not quite touching the other’s. When John didn’t move, he closed the minute space still separating them and pressed his lips against those of his friend’s.

If he was asked later, John would have said his brain at the same time short-circuited and went into overdrive when it realized that he was being kissed by Sherlock Holmes. Not a hallucination or a dream but a reality; those plush lips were genuinely pressing against his own, not demanding but not exactly hesitant, either.

Before he managed to respond, however, Sherlock sadly pulled back again, as gently as he’d approached. John opened eyes he hadn’t noticed he’d closed to, well, to put it bluntly, stare at his friend. The tingling in his lips were confirmation that yes, that had really just happened.

He searched the defined features, looking for any clue as to the reason for suddenly bridging that gap, both physically and somewhat more metaphorically.

“Sherlock…?” he finally asked, not finding any clues definitive enough that he dared pinning his hopes on.

The hopes were far too weighty to be hung on something as fragile as that, they would fall and shatter into a thousand pieces, never to be put back together again.

Sherlock looked odd, a flush in his cheeks while the rest of his face was paler than John could remember ever seeing it. His Adam’s apple bobbed, he looked as though he was trembling and the look in his eyes was difficult to discern, at least for John.

“I don’t regret it,” the brunet repeated.

One would’ve thought that was contradicted by his body language, such as the bobbing Adam’s apple and the trembling. However, he didn’t move, look away or otherwise seem uncomfortable. Nervous, yes, most definitely, but not uncomfortable.

“The…?” Not realizing, John didn’t finish the sentence but instead brought his fingers up, quite unconsciously, to his lips, letting them trail over the bottom one.

Sherlock, watching with rapt attention, swallowed again, heavily.

Then he practically launched himself at the other, by some miracle managing to reconnect their lips as they went down together, the surprise and momentum rather than the weight of his friend pushing John down.

He did eagerly press back into the kiss this time, though. However much he knew he was treading very fragile ice here, how patently stupid it would undoubtedly prove to get his hopes up even a little bit, he couldn’t stop himself for love nor money. Here it was, what he’d been pining for for absolute ages, how could he not enjoy it? It was practically presented on a silver platter!

Self-preservation prevailed, though, even over the hormones raging inside of him. Well, to some extent, at least. It was somewhat hard, with the way his friend kissed, as though he wanted to get as much as possible before it got taken away from him.

As Sherlock tried to deepen the kiss, tongue starting to lick almost kitten-ish along the seam of John’s lips, the blond pulled back, as much as he could, positioned beneath the other on the floor. That earned him a noise, though whether it was one of dissent, he couldn’t say for certain.

There was definitely a frown on Sherlock’s face, though, as he stared down at the other, the crease highlighted by the slightly bushy brows, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he’d been stopped. The lithe but wiry body was touching several places on John’s body, one or two of them very interesting indeed, and part of the Gryffindor was screaming at him not to miss this chance, to go up and grab it while he still had it. Before his friend came to his senses and all he would have would be the memories of those sinfully soft lips.

John needed clarification before he was prepared to go any further.

_Bloody hell, you ruddy idiot, stop thinking like a soppy girl in love and just take what he’s so clearly offering you!_

But he was, wasn’t he? To all intents and purposes, he was a soppy girl in love…well, in love, anyway, and probably soppy…and he was on the bottom at this precise moment, wasn’t he? He almost sniggered at the thought.

An amazing snog or even possibly a leg-over wasn’t worth losing Sherlock over. Not if he came to his senses and decided how spectacularly bad an idea it was, leaving John all by himself, now and for the rest of their time in school.

Also…John didn’t particularly fancy being just a leg-over for Sherlock, either, thank-you-very-much. The popular stereotype of teenage boys only being able to think with their dicks wasn’t one he particularly liked or believed in.

“Why?” he therefore asked, keeping his gaze on his friend, still looming over him. “Out of the blue, just like that…why?”

The frown intensified. “Not out of the blue. I told you why.”

“No, you bloody well didn’t. I’m not as stupid as you like to pretend. All you said was that you wanted to impress me. That’s hardly the same as wanting to…to snog me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t! And it’s certainly nothing to do with turning into a bloody otter and crawling all over me!”

“But I wouldn’t have realized otherwise!”

“Realized what, exactly?” John asked, slightly confused and very wary.

“The reason why I wanted to impress you most.”

“And what is that?”

“I love you.”

It was said so simply, so earnestly, without any flair or dramatics, any of the staples Sherlock usually employed when he wanted to make an impact. Just…the words, spoken while looking the blond directly in the eye.

It proved too much for John, whose gaze flickered, momentarily unable to cope with both the words and the look in those pale eyes. “Please, don’t, Sherlock.”

“John?” The voice faltered, even on such a short word.

“Don’t…don’t say that, just because you think that that’s what you’re supposed to say.”

Sherlock looked completely nonplussed by that statement. “You…what?” he said, actually managing to splutter slightly, which was something the blond couldn’t remember happening before.

John looked back, the moment of uncertainty and timidity passing and transforming into resolve at the undignified and surprisingly…not exactly raw but unchecked reaction from his friend. Such an admission from Sherlock, whatever the actual reason behind it, needed to be dealt with, one way or the other, and done so now, before they painted themselves into a corner that he wasn’t entirely certain they could escape from. not this time.

Yes, he was still nervous, incredibly so, because he most definitely didn’t want to lose his best friend to a moment of idiocy. On the other hand, this was far more than he had ever gotten from Sherlock, though admittedly it didn’t take much to escalate from ‘nothing’. I wasn’t merely the statement of ‘I love you’, not on its own, at least, but in conjunction with wanting to impress him, the kiss – both of them! Had he ever kissed someone before?

As he felt a small surge of jealousy at that thought that really wasn’t on, he pushed the thought aside. But all of those together…he couldn’t see all of them going into either a manipulation or Sherlock being clueless. For his socially clumsy and, as far as he knew, romantically inept friend, that was rather a large chasm to bridge.

If Sherlock could put his cards on the table, then surely so could John?

 “Yeah, that – or you think that that’s what _I_ want to hear.”

There, he’d said it. Admitted to what he wanted their relationship to be. Okay, perhaps not in so many words but close enough. Right? Would Sherlock misinterpret it? More importantly, did he want him to misinterpret or not? That was not entirely as straightforward a question as he would’ve believed.

“That you… _want_ to hear?” the teen above him repeated. This really was the day of firsts, wasn’t it? The younger Holmes had repeated not only himself but what John had said as well.

_Well, you said it, Watson. Now you own that you did._

“Yeah,” he said, his tone somewhat defiant, emphasized by lifting his chin.

The reaction he got from Sherlock at that wasn’t what he was expecting. Truth be told, if pressed, he couldn’t say what he would have expected, only that this wasn’t it. In hindsight, it might have been counted as obvious, but then again, hindsight always was 20/20, wasn’t it?

The reaction was a slow blink, then a slight widening of his eyes, possibly as the implications sank in. In themselves, those weren’t too surprising. What was, however, was the brightening of those eyes and the smile spreading across his face, one which John normally only saw when one of his more mentally taxing and out-there experimental potions or spells went right.

Not that he got long to register it, because he was very soon being kissed again, at first hard, then in a series of shorter, sweeter kisses that each landed slightly differently on his lips before they moved onto the rest of his face.

While that was lovely, and by god, was it ever, whatever other parts of his anatomy claimed, John needed to make absolutely sure they were on the same page.

“Sherlock, stop. Really. Just…stop a minute?” The brunet obeyed but did so reluctantly.

John brought a hand up to touch the face above him but hesitated. “Does this mean that you…?”

Why the bloody hell was it so fucking hard to articulate it? It ought to be simple, the path was practically paved for him, it ought to spill right out of him. Yet, the words were difficult to get out of his throat. He forced them.

“Does this mean that you want to be…” he weighed terms and found each as stupid as the other, so ended up plumping for, “in a romantic relationship?”

“Yes, of _course_ it does,” Sherlock replied, sounding much more like himself as his tone enhanced the words communicating ‘gods, must you be so dense?’ very clearly. “Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?” He had the audacity to sound miffed.

John found himself grinning, partly out of relief, partly out mischief but mainly out of pure joy at this turn of events that he couldn’t have predicted even if he’d aced his Divination exam.

“Dunno, really,” he said, shrugging as theatrically as he could, considering he was still on his back. “Usually I tune out, like, when ye get all fancy-like wi’ them long words, sir.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock murmured. He lowered his head to kiss the teen beneath him again and this time, John pushed up to meet him halfway.

More than that, he parted his lips to ask entrance almost as soon as their lips connected, something which Sherlock seemed more than happy to grant. His lips parted with a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

It turned into a groan when John took charge of the kiss from then on, determined to put the inadvertent training he’d had with his girlfriend into use and show just what he could do.

As a result, he went a little bit too hard at it, which resulted in a somewhat confused Sherlock, who tried valiantly to keep up, and an almost-bite to his tongue.

They were both giggling when they drew apart, though, which turned into full-blown laughter, the brunet’s forehead coming to rest against the blond’s collarbone at some point.

“Really, though?” John asked when the laughter petered out.

“Yes, _really_. I wonder how you ever managed to find a girlfriend when you’re this slow in matters like this.”

There was something in that voice that tipped John off it was more bravado covering up nerves than an actual jab. “Uh-huh. That’s a bit rich coming from Mr. Transport – and what happened to all that, anyway?”

Sherlock turned his head, so he could look at his friend.

“You,” he said, simply. As though that explained it all.

It didn’t.

“Then why…why did you…you wait until now?” The pauses were caused by Sherlock starting to nip and lick at the part of John’s collarbone that was exposed by the not-completely buttoned shirt. Well, that and he’d lowered himself so that he was almost completely covering the shorter teen. “We’ve been, been friends for…years and you’ve…never given any, any indication that…”

“I told you.”

John tried to focus. He’d said he’d only realized when he…had turned into an otter? But one’s brain capacity lowered when you…no, wait that wasn’t right, was it? What was it that lowered? Capacity for feelings? Was that it? Surely, it couldn’t then be feelings Sherlock had realized when he’d managed to turn into his animal form, if they were subdued.

Then again, he always had them on such a tight leash – John had stopped believing the line about not doing feelings or sentiment a long time ago when he’d seen enough contradictions for the statement to fall apart – that it would make some sort of sense that once he changed into a form entirely alien to him, he wouldn’t be able to maintain said leash.

That wouldn’t necessarily be a problem when still an otter, given the less complex feelings but perhaps…perhaps once he’d changed back, the leash wouldn’t snap back, as it were, straight away. Perhaps that was when…

“You were the…mmmh…otter with the barb and the one…who crawled under…under my shirt, yeah?” John asked for confirmation.

He got a nod and a swallow in response, felt even more by the fact that that long neck was pressed against his skin, and when exactly had his shirt been completely unbuttoned? _Ah, so you’re still aware that that last bit counts as ‘not good’, huh? Good._

He meant to ask further questions, he really did. Yes, a great part of him wanted nothing more than to give in and just rut against that lanky, gorgeous body he’d been fantasizing about for far too long. But though the younger Holmes had self-control to make a monk impressed, John could match him step for step with sheer stubbornness. That won, even against the hormones, though it wasn’t an easy fight.

At that moment, however, Sherlock took the decision out of his hands by choosing to shuffle down slightly and attach those sinfully sweet cupid bow lips to a nipple. He laved his tongue over the bud first, which caused it to tighten up and earned him a little gasp. Then he started sucking on it, not hard but enough that it sent small shocks through the blond, some of which went to his cock, which was already more than a little interested in the proceedings.

It wasn’t the only one that was.

Stubbornness was not quite a match for the team of hormones and a very determined Sherlock Holmes, it seemed. Which, to be honest, was quite alright with John.

They could talk later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this feel like an odd place to end? Possibly, as this is part of one longer chapter when I started but true to form, it kept getting longer and I won't post that long a chapter if I can help it (it's also why it's taken this long to get out). So I'll post this for now and the next will be relatively soon. Hope that'll be okay with everyone.  
> Please don't hit either of them. They are trying, even if they're not succeeding. Same goes for me, yeah? :) We've started addressing some points, at least - and pissed-off John comes oddly easily to me to write, should that be worrying me?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the talking's done, for the moment, Sherlock and John explore this new turn in their relationship in a more...physical manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a new computer! Advice to others, though - your fingers will not thank you for trying to make up for time lost by writing furiously. Nor will significant others.  
> Thank you again to everyone who's been so sweet as to leave feedback, of whatever kind. I know I say it a lot but I was always taught that a good thing cannot be said too often. :)

The bony, broad hands were not idle while his mouth was occupied; one, once the shirt had been completely unbuttoned, slid its way slowly up from the waistband of John’s trousers over his stomach, pausing to dip a finger into his navel before continuing upwards ever so slowly, until it found the neglected nipple and began to tweak it. Meanwhile, the other found its way to Sherlock’s own trousers, attempting to get the button open there.

John, who had a better view and a better position, batted the fumbling hand away after a moment to do it himself. Not that his hands were particularly steady, either, given his attention was more than halfway elsewhere but two hands did do better than one even so. Even Sherlock acknowledged that by not protesting.

Once both the button and the zip had been opened, John didn’t immediately go for the prize, though. He wanted to, could feel the heat of it through the thin barrier of cotton still in place. What he wanted more, however, was seeing. Not just seeing it properly as he freed it from its confines, though that was a definite goal, too, but seeing Sherlock’s face as he did so, as he touched it for the first time, see just what the expression on that long, elegant face would be.

That said, he was quite reluctant to have the other stop what he was doing to accomplish that feat. The touches felt electric, especially the ones provided by the lips and tongue that were far more skilled than John would have ever expected.

Then again, Sherlock always was a quick study, wasn’t he?

Once Sherlock’s free hand started to move towards John’s rather straining trousers, though, he decided to divert his attention. He did so by tangling his fingers in those thick, lovely curls and tugging, not harshly, just enough that he got the message.

It seemed with some reluctance still that the brunet pulled off the pebbled nub, giving it one last lick as he did so. He was rewarded, however, by John pressing their lips together again, angling Sherlock’s head in the process so he could more easily lick across that full bottom lip.

When he started to nip gently at it, he was rewarded with a soft gasp. This time, though, he didn’t take immediate advantage of the slight gap that momentarily caused, trying instead to prove that he did know what he was doing when it came to kissing someone. Instead, he pulled the lower lip in between his own, sucking slightly.

That earned him a sound caught between a hitched gasp and a moan. More than that, Sherlock opened his mouth again and pressed his own tongue at the blond’s upper lip, asking entrance.

John was happy to give it, and happy to let the other teen do whatever he might want to do. It seemed that Sherlock wanted John to take charge, though, because once in, he didn’t further press his advantage, just licking his way inside slowly.

Kissing Sherlock was good. No, good was a severe understatement, really. Despite not taking charge, Sherlock was no passive recipient. He most definitely gave as good as he got, oh didn’t he just, and he was indeed a quick study, meaning John had to focus to stay in front and in charge. Something that was more than fine with the Gryffindor, as it served to stoke his desire for this madcap of a man, the frisson of it curling deliciously inside of his core.

He wanted more, though. For one thing, he wanted to see that hard cock pressing against him and touch it with no barriers.

Sitting up somewhat to be able to reach, he managed to stretch his hand enough to grab hold of slim hips. He then tugged at them again and again until he had Sherlock sitting in his lap, somewhat hunched over as they were still kissing.

The position had the benefit of bringing Sherlock’s exceptionally rounded – when it was visible in his trousers every time he bent over, it was hardly ogling, was it? – and delectable arse in contact with John’s straining erection, the barring cloth acting not so much as a hindrance as another source of frisson that made his dick twitch.

Sherlock must’ve felt that twitch because he moaned deeply. Breaking the kiss, he sat back more firmly, putting delicious pressure on the hardness underneath him, which made John moan and shudder slightly in turn. It was more than difficult to not buck up into that pressure.

Pale eyes found blue. They were wide, and they were dilated, quite significantly so, and the breath coming from him were more akin to soft pants.

“John…” he breathed a little shakily, with something like wonder in his voice and bloody hell if that whole tableau wasn’t about the biggest turn-on.

Well, that and the way the trapped erection was not only now visible to the blond but oh so tantalizing as it pressed against dark cotton.

Sherlock breathed his name again as his hands moved from those slim, bony hips, tracing the edge of the trousers with his fingers until they instead touched the waistband of the boxers. There they paused for just a moment, John savouring the small intake of breath.

Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly, deliberately slowly, started to pull it down. The small intake of breath became a sharp one when John eased the fabric over the head, then let it drag lightly across the rest of the length, earning a drawn-out moan, a shudder and a small thrust of the hips, seemingly done despite best efforts, if the aborted nature of it was anything to go by.

The idea that he’d just caused _that_ kind of reaction, quite apart from the lovely hardness, in _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people sent a tendril of heat and power through John and it was difficult not to smirk.

It was helped somewhat by the final reveal of Sherlock’s cock.

Not that he hadn’t been able to deduce something from the shape inside the boxers, of course, but it didn’t do it justice once it was freed.

It was fairly long and slightly curved with a nice plump head and just the right thickness to take up the space and feel good when the blond grasped it in his fist, not tightly, just enough for him to get a proper feel for it. Of course, it didn’t exactly detract to have another shudder and a choked utterance of his name thrown in, either.

He licked his lips, eyes glued to it, the reality of it easily trumping and therefore usurping the relatively vague mental images he’d conjured in his mind, worried that too many details would make it more difficult to cope with not having.

To be completely honest, he wasn’t entirely convinced, even now, that this wasn’t some not previously experienced detailed dream and that he’d wake up back in the dorm room, panting and sweating with a tell-tale stain on the duvet.

His hand started moving almost without his conscious say-so, moving slowly enough that he had time to properly feel the texture of it, the veins and the heat of it, the flare as he got to the top, where he slid his thumb over the slit.

“John…” Sherlock moaned again, deep in his throat, and bucked slightly again before stilling his hips, seemingly by force of will.

John found himself wishing that he wouldn’t. That he’d instead let go of some of that control and thrust into his fist as hard and fast as he wanted to. That he’d come apart and spill his seed all over John’s hand and, perhaps, his chest, with as many lovely noises as possible. Of course, the fact that his thrusting pressed his arse more firmly against the blond’s own swollen dick wasn’t an insignificant consideration, either.

So, to achieve that, he tightened his fist a little and slid it back down, twisting a little as he went back up, looking up to see what reaction that caused.

Sherlock’s head wasn’t thrown back as he’d perhaps hoped but was instead tilted forward, curls falling into his eyes as he stared down, seemingly enraptured by what was happening, teeth biting as his lower lip.

Well, if that wasn’t gratifying, too, then…

“John…” the brunet breathed again and though he didn’t have a Mind Palace, John would do his damnedest to make sure he never forgot his name spoken shakily, huskily, hopefully, and a little desperately like that.

“I’ve got you,” he answered as he began a rhythm, “it’s okay, Sherlock, I’ve got you.”  He punctuated his words with a little thrust of his own hips, just enough that he hoped he’d get the hint.

It seemed that he did; brown curls tumbled as Sherlock threw his head back and began thrusting, not hard enough to dislodge him but decidedly no longer aborted, either. His hands, which had been resting on John’s chest, even when he’d sat up somewhat, now moved up to grasp at strong shoulders, probably in order to gain a bit more leverage as he thrust.

The fingers, and more importantly the nails, digging into his shoulder blades became an unexpected but not at all unwelcome counterpoint and in fact added to the pleasure that radiated through him as the brunet picked up speed, gradually thrusting faster and harder, essentially fucking John’s hand and by Merlin’s beard, wasn’t that just a wonderful sight?

To be honest, though it felt magnificent, John was almost certain that he wouldn’t be able to come like this, his cock far too restricted to gain the required friction. That didn’t mean he wasn’t getting anything out of this, though, quite the opposite.

Just watching Sherlock coming somewhat unstuck in comparison to his normal, tightly-controlled self was amazing in itself, but the notion that he had done that…no, that Sherlock was _willing_ to let go of that control in front of him, because of him, that was intoxicating.

When you had that, getting to come wasn’t your top priority, funnily enough.

He was only half-aware that words were pouring out of him as he continued trying to give Sherlock the best hand job he possibly could. Well, wasn’t quite a hand job, but close enough, really.

“That’s it, Sherlock, that’s it. Fuck, yes, that’s it, just like that. Keep going, keep going, fuck, you look so good, yes…” he said. Meanwhile, what he was actually listening for were the noises coming out of his friend; gasps, pants and moans, some of which sounded suspiciously like his name, ran together into the most fucking marvellous cacophony you could ever hope to hear.

“John, I can’t,” eventually broke through clearly, the words sounding hoarse, and pleading, and desperate, “I can’t, I’m so…I’m…I can’t!” He was almost sobbing at the last words.

“You can,” John replied. He’d noticed that the thrusts were becoming more erratic and, in combination with the words, it didn’t exactly take a genius to work out what was imminent. “Let go, I’ve got you. Oh, fuck, let go for me, I want to see you, so bad, I want to…”

He broke off as a thought occurred. Moving carefully so as not to stop anything, he moved his other hand down to grasp the balls beneath the shaft, squeezing them gently as he rolled them in his palm.

“Please, Sherlock.”

That did it. With a hoarse shout that bordered on a scream, Sherlock arched up hard into the hand still gripping him and ejaculated, his entire body shaking as he released spurt after spurt, not so much coating John’s hand as painting his chest and neck in sticky stripes.

The hands at his shoulder blades dug in hard enough that they must’ve drawn blood, but John didn’t care. How could he when he had such a display to look at? The fact that he hadn’t come in his trousers was unbelievable.

Sherlock’s mouth was open, he was flushed and sweating, and his chest was heaving. Though his cock stopped its ejaculation, his body continued to tremble.

What got John’s attention, though, was something else; his eyes weren’t close but neither did they seem to be moving, instead staring straight up, body immobile apart from the tremors.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s wrong?” he asked, worry chasing away pride and even arousal for the moment. “Sherlock?”

The brunet’s head dropped suddenly at that but before the Gryffindor could assess whether that was another cause for concern, he was kissed, his lips captured hard as hands dislodged and cupped both sides of his face, not precisely hard but certainly enough that ‘cupped’ didn’t seem entirely an appropriate word to describe it.

It felt as though the Ravenclaw wanted to prevent him from leaving but that couldn’t be right, because why on earth would he? He had everything, or just about, anyway, he’d wished for right here, in his lap. Who would leave in those circumstances?

However, the likelihood of that being the underlying cause grew as Sherlock, still kissing him as if he’d disappear the moment he was let go – although they’d both turned seventeen and therefore been eligible to take part in the Apparition course after the Christmas Holiday, seeing as they were inside Hogwarts grounds, the probability of that was remote, to say the last – shuffled further into his lap, pressing close to anywhere and everywhere he could reach.

John broke the kiss and ignored the distinct noise of complaint he got in return as well as the attempt to draw him back in. “Sherlock, what’s going on? No, hold up, stop, wait. No, I mean it, wait.”

He got a scowl for his troubles but surprisingly, there was no other attempt to kiss him again. Sherlock’s hands were still caging his face, though.

“The hell is wrong?” he asked again, his gentle tone at odds with the words, bringing his own hand up to sweep a finger gently, carefully underneath the lower eyelid, coming away with rather tell-tale moisture. The pale eyes had an odd look to them that, in combination with the moisture, worried John.

“Sherlock?” he said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. He wouldn’t have thought it was that terrible a time, not with the noises he’d made or the way he was still clinging onto John. But clearly something was the matter, and he wanted to make it right. “Please, talk to me.”

Sherlock swallowed, blinked and then seemed to flicker back to life. “It’s nothing…nothing, really. I’m…fine,” he said with a smile, or rather a pitiful attempt at one, which was further mitigated by the fact that he turned his face away, eyes downcast.

“Pull the bleeding other one you are. I’m not that dumb, you idiot, or that gullible. You start crying as soon as you finish, of course something’s the matter. What’s more, you’re going to tell me what it is and do it now.” He tilted the other’s face back to him and waited until Sherlock looked at him. “I think you owe me that honesty, now that we’re no lon…now that you’re my _boyfriend_.”

He was glad he managed to change course and not tease his friend first. From the look he got, Sherlock had already been in the process of finishing his sentence as he’d started it off and he didn’t like that look at all.

More reassuringly, the emphasis he’d put on the last word, the important one, registered a moment afterwards and the look changed to one of hopeful disbelief, the pale eyes flickering all over his face to look for…whatever it was that gave him those clues everyone else missed.

“What, you really think I’d chance our friendship, my fucking best friend in the entire world, just for a chance to get off?” He probably ought to be offended but instead, the feeling that bloomed was one of grateful relief when he saw those eyes light up and the corners of them crinkle as a small smile began to emerge.

Something passed between them, an ‘are you sure?’ answered by ‘of course I am’. Then came the addendum of ‘for a genius, you really are an idiot’.

“You haven’t, though,” Sherlock said, the words coming out slowly, deliberately, the edges of the smile curling into something else.

“Haven’t what?” John asked, his focus elsewhere rendering him a little confused.

“Gotten off.” As if to underline his point, Sherlock rocked back with some force, putting pressure on John’s cock, which hadn’t flagged too much in the interim, and was clearly taking a renewed interest.

“No…no.” He gritted his teeth to ignore it, which was difficult. More than difficult, really. “It’s fine, though. Really.”

Sherlock paused for only the briefest of moments. Then he did an odd sort of scoffing snort, which managed to communicate the sentiment that John really was an idiot, though that was hardly a new exchange between them. What was odd about it was mostly the fondness that seemed to have crept in.

He dove in for another kiss but while they kissed, he started to slide his body down and wriggle somewhat so that they ended up in more or less the same position they had started kissing in, John on his back with Sherlock plastered to his front.

Then the Ravenclaw broke the kiss, peppering John’s jaw, neck, chest and stomach with kisses and nibbles as he slid further down, his hands working at the still unopened trousers, only somewhat hindered by the tightness of them and the length begging for attention.

“Sherlock…” Was he trying to halt him or encourage him? He couldn’t say, and the hand that had found its way back into those thick curls wasn’t any better indication either.

Whatever the case, it didn’t really matter, since Sherlock pretty firmly ignored it. He took the time to slide the trousers down once he’d opened them, though, and the briefs along with it, and slid his hands up the now exposed thighs before he settled them on John’s hips. They weren’t exactly pinning him, but the press was firm enough to get the message.

Though he probably should have, John didn’t quite string together what his friend had in mind – his mind a teensy bit occupied with just the fact that this was really happening at all – until he felt breath on his shaft and then another, longer one, clearly intentional.

His own breath hitched at that. It turned into a strangled moan when lips engulfed the head, sliding slowly down over it and tightening slightly once the whole head was inside. Then the flat of a tongue pressed against the underside, seemingly attempting to wrap itself around, only to become pointed as it slid up, almost exploratorily, to touch the slit. It then dipped into it gently, pulled away and did it again. And again.

Meanwhile, one hand slid from the thigh to provide a counterpoint at the base, imitating the almost kittenish touches of the tongue. It ought to have been nothing but a tease but somehow, the lightness of the touches sent little shocks through him, as though the lightness was amplifying rather than diminishing. He was panting and moaning, some of which were drawn-out versions of Sherlock’s name, and it took quite a lot to keep still, regardless of the hand still on his hip; the dark curls received quite a few tugs and pulls.

So caught up in the sensations – and still bowled over by the thought that this was Sherlock Holmes going down on him – was he that when those lips slid far further down quickly while applying suction, he was in no way prepared.

The stimulation proved the final straw for John, and he tugged at the curls hard to get Sherlock to pull off. He did but it wasn’t quite fast enough and consequently, some went into his mouth and the rest went over his lips, chin and cheek. He did nothing to avoid it.

If the blond wasn’t already ejaculating, that sight alone might have been enough to send him over the edge. As it was, it made him groan deep in his throat and close his eyes as the spurts trailed off.

A stray thought was that it was just as well that he was attending a magical school, so he’d know how to easily clean up such mess on the go.

He opened his eyes again when he felt his pants and trousers being pulled back up. Sherlock looked up at him, his face still streaked, smiling a smile that was oddly caught between a smirk and a shy twitch of lips.

Come here, you,” John said softly, removing his hands from the hair to instead let them tug at the collar of Sherlock’s robes.

The Ravenclaw resisted but only for the moment it took to close and button his own trousers. Then he went willingly, capturing the blond’s lips as soon as he was close enough.

What John hadn’t quite expected was for his lanky boyfriend to cover his entire body with his own as he lay down, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the Gryffindor’s throat. Not that he was about to complain, though; they’d hardly have a lot of opportunities to lie like this while they were at school and the summer holiday was still some way off.

They ought to get up and go back down to the rest of the world, though, and after a few moments of basking in their closeness, the Gryffindor sighed and made to get up.

The Ravenclaw wasn’t having it, though, and so made his body intentionally limp and heavy, far heavier than John would’ve thought the lanky body could be.

“John, would you relax? Nobody has classes here this morning, we’re fine.”

“We are still skipping classes ourselves.”

“Yes, so whether we stay a bit longer won’t make a lot of difference.”

John conceded the point, even if it was mostly because he too was enjoying this and wanted it to last for just a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddayaknow, it got away from me again in terms of written material (when doesn't it, really?) and as there's something of a shift between what's happened this chapter and what's coming up next, I thought it best to cut it there. Next one won't be long, though, I hope that's a compensation of sorts - and we'll get explanations then, too. :D   
> This was...fun? Fun, yeah, to write, though I wonder...does this still count as mature? I wouldn't say it was explicit but I might be mixing it up with my old mental definitions of 'lime' and 'lemon', from back in the day.


	6. Explanations, worries and moving closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, basically what the chapter title suggests. Sherlock tries to explain what he thinks happened, there are worries, slight misunderstandings and through it, they grow even closer as a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd get this out soon after the other, didn't I? :D  
> Didn't feel the need to wrap the summary in 'mystery' this time. You're either already on board or you aren't - and I thank every one of you who's still on this train. :D <3

They eventually sat back up and moved over to the window where John had pulled open the curtain earlier, taking a chair each as they took in the admittedly amazing view out across the grounds. It being the tower in a castle, even if it was a magical one, it was of course not quite a panoramic view, but it was still enough to take your breath away.

That said, John’s focus was more on the hand in his and the rightness of it all.

Time passed as both boys sat in thought.

Eventually, feeling that it had to be addressed before they got started, John spoke.

“This…” he squeezed the hand in his, “this doesn’t make everything okay, you know.”

Sherlock looked at him, blinking as though puzzled but the expression was one of wariness instead.

“What you did. Just because we’re now…well…that doesn’t negate that the things you did were not okay or mean that I’m not still mad at you.”

“John – “

“No bloody buts, Sherlock. Fine, you were overwhelmed, I get that, and you’re not the best at feelings, either, I know. That doesn’t excuse ogling me, crawling on me, being fucking contradictory in your behaviour when human and frankly a little shit when I was only trying to _help_ you, disappearing on me and making me scared something had happened to you – “

“John, I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sherlock had the grace to pause.

“No,” he conceded, “I don’t. I can’t because I’m not you,” John heard the unspoken ‘ _I am not good at feelings like you are’_ but didn’t comment, “I don’t know how you feel and I shouldn’t tell you how you should feel.” He paused again, drawing in a somewhat shaky breath. “I said I don’t regret it and I mean it, but that’s for the realizations that I came to, not the behaviour I exhibited. It…it got away from me, and that’s not an excuse, I know, and I’m not trying to make it one, but…”

He trailed off, the hand he had twined with John’s slackening its grip in a clear attempt to pull it away.

In response, John just tightened his grip, because he wasn’t having that idiocy. This was, for Sherlock, a tremendous amount of self-realization, and he wasn’t going to allow him to run from that, for several reasons. Chief among them was the risk that he’d build his walls right back up again if allowed, just to be able to cope, and he might withdraw entirely from John in the process.

The tightening had the effect of turning Sherlock’s gaze first upon it, then slowly it lifted to look at the blond.

John stared back, without saying a word. He was still mad at him, because it really wasn’t okay, and Sherlock truly needed to get that through his thick brain so that it’d stick. He thought that pretty likely, given everything, including the little speech just now.

“You…really?” the Ravenclaw asked, oddly vague but in conjunction with the pale eyes flickering back down to their clasped hands a few times, it wasn’t two ends difficult to string together.

John merely nodded, letting it be up to his boyfriend – and wasn’t that just a word that made him want to race to the top of the Astronomy Tower and scream with joy so that everyone would know? – where it was going to go next.

That, it seemed, was to tighten the grip even further and lean in, presumably for a kiss. Then he suddenly hesitated.

“I had a lot of time to think before you found me. Can I…will you allow me to make it up to you?” he asked, and it was timid, apologetic and frailly hopeful.

“I’ll allow you to _try,”_ he replied and closed the distance between them before either had a chance to pull back.

“Please, John. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The words came between kisses, almost a desperate litany, to which John couldn’t help responding with ‘shush’ and ‘it’s okay’ after a while where they didn’t let up.

“Got to have some actions behind it, too, though,” he said when they parted for the last time. “Words are easy, after all.”

Sherlock blinked, then nodded, fervently, his eyes brightening.

Well, that seemed at least a good start.

But really, things ought to be equal and the slate clean if they were to start out right. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was in the wrong, was he?

His gaze focused on the bruise that had already blossomed into quite the reddish-purple flower on Sherlock’s jaw and, yes, spreading onto the cheek by now.

He’d done that, hadn’t he? Lost control of his temper, the way that Harry had always enjoyed teasing him about, getting progressively harsher until she provoked him into just the sort of outburst she’d taunted him about in the first place.

He felt that he hadn’t been unjustified in his anger, not after everything that Sherlock had put him through, not just in these last few days, either. Hitting him, though…that was beyond the pale.

Also, another point – Sherlock hadn’t said anything about it, either when it had first happened or at any subsequent point during all of this. He hadn’t even flinched or otherwise reacted, not that John had seen, anyway, when it had made contact with things. The blond couldn’t recall that he’d touched it, at least not on purpose, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t, did it?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

John felt a tendril of guilt squirm in the pit of his stomach. More importantly, why the bloody hell hadn’t he taken notice of that himself earlier? The moral high ground didn’t give him the right to punch the guy, and the fact that Sherlock had just accepted it hurt.

No time like the present to try and make up for past idiocy. Emphasis on try.

“Words alone are better than actions alone, though,” he said slowly but clearly, his gaze lowering to look at the spreading flower of a bruise. He reached a finger up to touch but hesitated before it made contact. “Especially actions like…I’m really sorry about this, and the fact that I’ve been ignoring it.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly away from John. “You haven’t and it’s fine.”

That twisted something in John’s stomach. “It’s not,” he protested with feeling. He didn’t attempt to get his friend to turn his head back around, though.

Sherlock turned his head of his own accord a few moments, which to the blond felt like ages, later.

He had, of all things, the tiniest of wry smiles on his lips.

“To be honest, I don’t mind. Really. I don’t. I’ve probably had that coming for years from you – “

“You haven’t!” John protested

“ – and probably deserved more, honestly.” There was no bitterness, no snap, nothing but that wry little smile and soft eyes. As though it was all alright. Why was he acting as though it was alright?

“At least let me heal it for you,” John offered, as even though his heart felt a bit lighter, there was still a not-insubstantial feeling of guilt. “You know I’ve been looking up…”

He stopped when he saw the Ravenclaw shake his head, his heart sinking.

“I want to keep it,” Sherlock said, his voice low, the smile broadening at John’s look of surprised disbelief and suspicion. “It’s a reminder of what’s happened, something that all will see, that can’t be hidden with clothes. Your mark on me.”

That gave John some genuine pause. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“So…you like being marked?” he asked, a little tentatively, wanting to be sure.

Sherlock shifted but didn’t look away. “Not by anyone. By you. I liked, _like_ , being marked by _you_.”

“Why not a regular old hickey, then? I’m more than willing to give you one of those.”

The thought of Sherlock bearing any kind of mark that John had given him, openly and proudly it seemed, was oddly heart-warming and alleviated some of the strangeness of the idea as well as his guilt.

The brunet seemed to consider it. “Okay. Yes. But only if I can reciprocate _and_ if it’s in addition to the other.”

John snorted. “You idiot,” he said, but his tone was fondly exasperated and slightly amused.

“Your idiot,” Sherlock corrected, his smile…not exactly faltering but flickering ever so slightly.

“My idiot,” the blond said and leaned in for a kiss.

What seemed like a long time passed before either spoke again.

“Speaking of before I found you,” John said, picking up a thread from earlier that had resurfaced in his mind, “you never said why you were still an otter when I found you up here. Why you hadn’t changed back, I mean,” John eventually said. _Nor why I met you twice as an otter, either, but let’s leave that for now. One thing at a time._

Sherlock didn’t respond for such a long time that John thought he’d either fallen asleep, which was unlikely, or he was trying to ignore it, which John really hoped wasn’t the case. For his sake.

Eventually, he did speak, but when he did, it wasn’t the answer John had been expecting.

“I…I couldn’t. I wanted to, when we got back to the castle, to show you and apologize. Before that, even. I really tried to, too, several times in fact, but I couldn’t. Every attempt I’ve made since then have been fruitless, as well, until you found me.”

John thought he could see a bit of colour high on those cheekbones and smiled softly.

“Aren’t Animagi supposed to be able to turn at will once they’ve done it successfully the first time? Isn’t that the whole point?”

John felt Sherlock stiffen a little at that, for which he probably oughtn’t be blamed, all things considered. It wasn’t exactly the thing to be most proud of, after all. Thankfully, though, he didn’t pull away but merely nodded.

“Normally, yes,” he replied. He didn’t look at John as he did so, though, and there was another pause before he continued.

“First time I managed to do it was the day you pulled that barb from my ear. That first time was intentional. The second time wasn’t. I was running…running from the Hospital Wing,” – the pause and the change of words seemed to indicate fairly well that he was aware running from John hadn’t gone down well, either – “and didn’t look where I was going. Suddenly everything was quite a lot bigger than it ought to be. I suppose I should just be thankful I’d unconsciously headed upwards when everyone else was headed down for lunch and nobody saw me change.”

“How do you know for sure?”

A ghost of a smile played in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “If they had, you wouldn’t have been surprised, would you? The Hogwarts rumour mill sometimes makes deductions quite unnecessary.”

John made a noise of agreement. Then, after waiting without result for the other to go on, he nudged him.

“Hm? Oh. Yes. I tried to change back immediately, obviously. It didn’t work. Not until later that night when I’d run back out into the forest for some time to think, which...proved a bad idea. I was saved being eaten by changing back to human. Then, coming back to the castle, I remembered your Quidditch practice. I went to meet you but at some point between then and you seeing me, I’d turned back into the otter.”

“Oh, so you _were_ apologizing,” John said, remembering the odd behaviour of the creature at that point. “Still doesn’t explain what the hell the idea behind the shirt-dive was. Or the climbing on me.”

The blush intensified. “I was trying to change back all the way back to the castle and I didn’t want you to run from me, so maybe I clung a bit. I thought I heard someone coming up behind you,” – and wasn’t that just a little bit convenient? – “and didn’t want to get found out. After that, I…”

He stopped, swallowed heavily and wet his lips. “I’m sorry.”

John waited only a moment before pressing his lips to one burning cheek in acceptance of the apology.

“Next morning when I woke, I was still an otter. Thought I might have,” he hesitated and swallowed heavily again, “…but I hadn’t. I tried running back to the forest, to see whether it was just a fluke. When it turned out it was, I returned to the school. Couldn’t find any way to research without being seen, never mind moving the books without hands or a wand. Wound up here, one way or the other, don’t know how exactly. I was tired, but I kept trying to turn back without luck. I thought about other ways but…”

He trailed off with a shrug, as though there really wasn’t more to say.

In a way there wasn’t, as the blond thought he could guess the rest. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to alert anybody as to his predicament, in case somebody reported him as having become an Animagus without going through registering. Of course, it might be argued that that _had_ been his first transformation and so was legal enough, provided he registered straight afterwards. As he’d had no supervision through the process, though, there was nobody to verify such a claim and thus, the case was hard to argue.

There were still a few important points, though.

“You said you’d had time to think while you’ve been stuck as an otter. Did you come up with a – “

“A reason why I couldn’t change back?” the Ravenclaw interrupted. He snorted, though not in amusement. “Several, one more ludicrous than the next. Nothing that makes sense in the context, especially not when it comes to why I was able to change back now but not before. Half-expected to revert back to an otter halfway through, really.”

He snorted again. But then his gaze slid sideways to look at John, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a small smirk. “Of course, that might have its own benefits. The soft fur and everything.”

Now it was John’s turn to colour as the thought alone sent blood rushing southwards. “Sherlock!”

“What? If I’m going to be stuck again, we might as well find some uses for it.”

“You’re not going to be stuck again.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he turned his head fully to look at his new boyfriend. “And why, pray tell, are you so sure about that?”

“Because if you do turn and can’t turn back, I’ll help you. I want to research it, anyway, regardless – and you bloody well might have let me know what had happened. I’m supposed to be your best friend, you idiot.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Sherlock snapped. “Write out the whole thing with my ever-so-dextrous paws? Chirp in Morse code?”

“You’re supposed to be the genius, you tell me!”

“Precisely! I’m supposed to be! It wouldn’t be very impressive if you’d found out when I was stuck, would it?”

Oh. _Oh._

“Why didn’t you change back when I’d pull the barb from you, though? Why wait? You said that wasn’t unintentional, so…why?”

Sherlock looked away as he mumbled something.

“Didn’t catch that.”

The brunet reluctantly turned his eyes back on John. “I was going to when I suddenly realized that – “

This time, he didn’t trail off as much as cut himself off. His gaze skidded everywhere but John’s face and his face was slowly going crimson.

_Wait, so he can be as blasé as anything about something sex-related but blush when it’s an…oh! Oh, John, you fucking idiot. Of course, he’d be much more self-conscious about that. You saw it only a little earlier, for crying out loud! And you know he’s hardly been the best with…stuff like that, not in all the time you’ve been friends._

So, with his free hand he reached over, gently cupped his friend’s jaw, mindful of the bruise he’d been responsible for, and turned his head so he could easily press a kiss to those soft lips.

“Thank you for realizing that,” he said softly when they parted.

“I wish it hadn’t taken me that long.”

“Me too. Gods, me too.” Another kiss. “But still, you got there, that’s the important thing – and you got a pretty nifty trick out of it.”

“Thought it’d be better than what I got, though.”

“What, like a panther or something?” John grinned, expecting a grin in return.

Instead, Sherlock didn’t respond.

“What…no? You weren’t, were you? Really? Of all the things – !” He couldn’t help it, he laughed. When he saw that the brunet didn’t, however, he quickly stopped. “Hey, come on. There’s nothing wrong with the otter. I think it’s cute.”

“Cute is hardly compatible with impressive,” Sherlock snapped.

“Still on about that? Sherlock, the mere fact that you managed to become an Animagus on your own is impressive, regardless of what animal you’d turn into. Besides, I can’t wear a panther round my neck, can I?”

Sherlock started to frown at that but then almost immediately blinked as understanding dawned. “You’d…really?”

John smiled. “Yeah. As long as you keep those claws to yourself, I’ve got to admit, I enjoyed having you ride on my shoulder and ‘round my neck, too. Also, be grateful you turned into something small. You wouldn’t have been able to hide if you’d turned into a panther.”

The brunet nodded, then leaned in. “I quite liked being around your neck, too,” he whispered into John’s ear, lips brushing the shell.

It was John’s turn to blush again. Quite apart from the unintended voyeurism he’d been subjected to when Sherlock had been up in the Gryffindor sixth years’ bedroom, he was suddenly glad he hadn’t known the otter was Sherlock at the time he’d been wrapped around his neck, for a few reasons.

They sat a bit longer, not saying anything.

John could admit to himself that he was reluctant to leave, regardless of whether they’d be outed by the next group of students clambering up here. Or the teacher, of course.

Though it was an utterly stupid notion, it felt as though once they did, the things that had happened up here, the major shift in their relationship, would burst like a soapy bubble, the rainbow magic of it imploding as though it had never been.

He knew it was irrational. Beyond irrational, really, when he considered all the comments Sherlock had made to their ‘new status’, as it were, especially the one about wearing John’s mark for all to see.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t entirely quell the small niggling doubt that said his friend might change his mind once people knew for certain that they were together. He got enough flak for being a freak as it were, adding being in a relationship with John might tip them over into doing something nasty.

Facing that possibility, and the subsequent thought that at the very least they’d have to keep it on the QT, John wanted to stretch out the time where it was just the two of them, free to just _be._

Of course, there was the consolation that with the exams coming up, so was the summer holiday where there would be no one from school there to pry or judge, and they were both over seventeen now, so they were allowed to Apparate if they chose to, giving them options they didn’t have before.

However, that thought didn’t exactly feel like much of consolation. Even though they _could_ see each other, there was a rather big question of whether they genuinely _would,_ what with what was planned for them.

It wasn’t as though the Watson family went on big, extravagant holidays – if John’s stay at Hogwarts wasn’t a no-cost business for his parents, he’d have been sent to the nearest comprehensive and be told to be glad of it, reputation for trouble students and all – but sometimes the Holmes family did. Sherlock protested vehemently every time and tried valiantly, and sometimes quite inventively, to get out of it, of course, but so far, he’d been spectacularly unsuccessful.

The letters he’d written to John about it, delivered by one of Sherlock’s owls, because of course the git had more than one back home, this being the ‘little owl’, had been quite amusing. Phone calls had been out of the question since the very first year after one call from Sherlock had made Harry pick on John for having a poncey fairy boyfriend, which led to a fight and a telling-off, or alternatively a screaming match, afterwards if he so much as touched the receiver.

So, the risk that they might not even get to see each other much in the coming summer was real.

That was of course not even counting the whole question of what the Holmes family would say to their youngest son having a boyfriend. They’d been pretty welcoming towards John the few times he’d visited, under the argument to his parents that they wouldn’t have to deal with him, that was true, but there was quite a leap from that to being a romantic partner –

“Shut up.”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“You were thinking so loud you could wake a sleeping troll.”

“Piss off, you wanker. I wasn’t. I was just – “

“Worrying about what people would think. Your tenseness is an easy giveaway.”

That he was right didn’t help feeling like you’d been caught out, quite the opposite. “Not people.” Liar. “Your parents. Your brother. They haven’t exactly given any indication that…well…” he floundered, not so much unsure of how to phrase it as afraid how stupid it’d sound once he gave it voice.

Sherlock turned his head to kiss him again. “They’d be more flabbergasted someone would like me enough to put up with me in that sense,” he said when they separated. “At least, Mycroft would. Mummy would probably think it all terribly endearing or something equally tedious and twee.”

“But I’m a bloke.”

“Excellent deduction, John, you’re simply on sparkling form.”

“Yeah, ta for that. The point remains.”

“What point? That you’re a guy and therefore must be inferior to the crop of ripe young females I could pick and choose from? That you’re a Muggle and shouldn’t try to court someone from an old pureblood family? That your family has a history of abuse and thus you must bear that same bad seed within you?”

The blows of each sentence, each accurate point, hit hard and precise, as Sherlock’s cutting remarks always did. John felt bile rise in his throat again at having it all laid bare like that, the reasons why he was about the worst possible match for Sherlock.

He was therefore not prepared for suddenly having a lapful of brunet, clinging like an octopus. “Sherlock…”

“You truly are an idiot sometimes, John. Do you think I care about any of those things?”

John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off before he could speak.

“You know what I care about? I care about the fact that you’re my very best friend. That you’re not just willing to put up with me but actively seek out my company. That you make me laugh and enjoy things other than experiments. That you’re completely uncaring about the status the Holmes family name brings and the consequent rumours. That you see me for me, not for what you can gain from me or my family. That you are kind, brave, strong, tenacious, complex, charming, caring, compassionate, understanding, independent, and simply perfect. That you are _you_ , John Watson, first and always, no matter what.”

John would have to admit, that was not what he had expected to hear. At all. He would also have to admit that it squashed the bile quite soundly, that it wasn’t something he’d ever expect to hear come out of Sherlock’s mouth _of his own free will,_ and, quite frankly, he was staring with his mouth wide open and was unable to do anything about it.

Sherlock had the audacity to look somewhat offended at that. “What?”

“You sure you’re Sherlock and not some shapeshifting siren or similar?” John asked when he’d gotten his jaw to close. It was out before he could rein himself in.

“If I was, I would hardly say that I was, would I?” the brunet snapped. It was clear he had thought it’d be received differently and was…embarrassed? Out of his depth? Both? “I don’t see how – “

“Hey. Hey, now, come on. I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t. Look at me? Please.” A pause. “Thank you. I just meant…it’s…you’ve never said anything even remotely…like that. It threw me a little, that’s all.”

“Should I not have?” The words, very likely meant to come out offhand and not-bothered, sounded hesitant and unsure.

“No! No, of course not, that’s not…that’s not what I’m saying.” A suspicion hit him at that moment and it wasn’t a pleasant one at all. “Unless…Sherlock, you didn’t say that because you…because you thought you ought to? That that was what I wanted to hear? Because if it is, then I really don’t want to hear it.”

“What?” Sherlock looked honestly baffled by the idea, and a little alarmed, as well. “Why? Why would I do that? You just said I haven’t ever…so why would I…I don’t…don’t understand…I thought that…” His face became more and more bewildered and, even more heartbreakingly, also increasingly lost.

That made John hesitate in turn, his heart wrenching. “So…you meant it?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

For a moment, Sherlock’s face expressed the sentiment ‘of course I did, don’t be an idiot’. What left his mouth, however, was, “Every single word.”

“But you’ve never even hinted.”

“Just because I don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. I just didn’t – “

“Sherlock?” the Gryffindor interrupted gently and the Ravenclaw shut up.

“Yes?”

John hesitated again momentarily then took a deep breath and grasped the broad, bony hand in his, bringing it up to the left side of his chest, where his heart was doing the a more staccato yet spirited race than had ever been seen at Ascot. There was no way that Sherlock couldn’t feel the rhythm.

“Next time?” John said, a soft smile on his face. “Please say it. Out loud so this idiot gets it, too.”

Sherlock blinked, swallowed and blushed. “…you’re not alone in being an idiot, it seems.”

The blond’s smile widened slightly. “No. No, I’m not. But it’s okay, because you’re _my_ idiot and I love you. I love you for _you_ , insufferable berk and all.”

_“Good._ Perhaps then you’ll believe me when I say that I don’t care if the whole school knows. I _want_ them to know. In fact, unless you have any objections, I’d like to…” the blush, which hadn’t entirely dissipated, intensified, “do what other couples do when out in public.”

“What? Hold hands, you mean?”

“…Yes. And…the rest of it, too.”

John’s smile blossomed into a big, warm grin. He gripped both bony hands and squeezed them. “I think that can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teeechnically, I could say we end here, wrapped up all nice, left in a, I hope, lovely place. However, I have a plan for one more little chapter, as otherwise I haven't included what inspired me to write this whole thing in the first place. You'll see. :)  
> This was a treat to write both the explanation (to whatever degree of explaining that counts for) and the boys being the boys. Hope they still seem balanced and mostly IC. :)  
> Thank you for reading, feedback is treasured. :D


	7. Future plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John tries to settle into being a romantic couple, both in terms of their present and their future, short-term and long-term. Also, Sherlock tries out being an otter more deliberately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading this on my death day (no, I did not write that wrong) as a little present to myself, proving to myself...well...

In the end, John’s worries had turned out to be as baseless as was so often the case with the things people work themselves frantic over.

Granted, there had been some stares and a few whispers, some behind hands, some not, going around the castle. Then again, as both Sarah and Sherlock so succinctly told him, people will do little else but talk. The important thing was that none of those whispers persisted or were even that malicious.

Even when they did happen, Sherlock had held true to his word about displaying the marks the blond had given him, going so far as to actually tilt his head upwards to the people that stared so they could get a better look. Though that might just as well be more Sherlock being Sherlock than anything else.

John would have to admit that it did help assuage his insecurities and, more importantly, his guilt about having put it there, at least a good deal. Especially when one directly asked why he hadn’t had it removed with a spell already.

The reply?

“Don’t be so utterly imbecilic. You don’t remove something that’s precious to you.” For the cherry on top, it was delivered in the most Sherlockian tone of voice possible.

After that, John’s heart was lightened.

It was lightened further not many days before they were due to head home for the summer holidays. Much as he’d tried to prevent it, it had sunk a little again when he’d heard nothing about whether he could come visit Sherlock over the summer.

Of course, the Ravenclaw hadn’t said that he _couldn’t_ , either, and knowing him, he probably assumed that John knew he was welcome. Even so, he had no intention of just Apparating into the Holmes Manor with a carpet bag and a sheepish smile. Not without an explicit invitation from either Sherlock or his parents.

That wasn’t to say he was mad at Sherlock about not saying anything. Truth be told, he’d become a whole lot better at communicating, at least when it came to John. Not that he was perfect by any stretch of the imagination, far from it, but he was trying now, fumbled and wrong though it sometimes turned out to be.

In any case, they were really both at fault. If John wanted to come visit, he was just as much capable of asking Sherlock whether he could as Sherlock was of asking him to.

Yet…he hadn’t. Hadn’t done more than leave hints when they had a few precious moments to themselves that wasn’t swallowed up by exams or cramming for them. Well, cramming for the Gryffindor, anyway. The Ravenclaw seemed quite unperturbed but then again, he always did at exam time. Bastard.

Sherlock hadn’t said anything either, and so it had lain between them, this odd little nugget of cold worry in the shining, burning warmth of their newfound escalation of friendship.

So, the night when exams were finally over, when they sat out on the lakeside shore, much like John had done when he’d first encountered otter-Sherlock, just enjoying some quiet and occasionally talking, John was not prepared for what his boyfriend said next.

“Mummy sent a letter today.” He said it while keeping his gaze fixed on the dark, occasionally glimmering mass that was the water.

“O…kay…” That was an odd non-sequitur, even for Sherlock, who almost never mentioned his parents. “Just social niceties or did she want something specific?”

“She wanted to know whether you have any preferences.”

What was the comparative version of non-sequitur? Because whatever it was, it certainly fit.

“Preferences? Preferences for what?” John asked, sounding as confused as he felt.

“Cuisine.”

Scratch comparative, he needed the superlative version.

“Since when does your mother care about my food preferences?”

“She wants to be sure she books the right hotel.” He still wasn’t turning around, leaving John very little to work with.

“Right hot…no, wait. I give up. Could you…could you just tell me what’s going on?”

Finally, the brunet turned his head, a frown creasing his brow. “Surely it’s obvious, John.”

“No, it bloody well isn’t! You’ve just hit me with a series of non-sequifuckery.”

“That’s not what it’s – “

“Sherlock, I know! Just answer the ruddy question.”

“Your propensity for swearing when flustered is quite remarkable. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed before we started dating.”

Well, there was a word that still sent a small but giddy flush to the blond’s cheeks. “Answer the question – and don’t pretend you can’t remember it.”

“She wrote to say that she’s cleared it all with your parents and what interesting, nice people they were, “ –  and that, right there, showed manners and class, to lie that blatantly but for the best of intentions even through text – ,”but whether I was sure you’d be alright with the south of France for two weeks and did you have any preferences in regards to food because she wants you to feel comfortable.”

“…what?” The word came out of John’s mouth small and croaky, as though forced through wads of cotton.

It was Sherlock’s turn to blush, only just visible in the slow twilight of the summer night. “I...I took the liberty of…I told her you’d be staying with us. For the…the whole summer.” The blush intensified slightly.

John blinked, trying to get his sudden muddle of thought into an order that wouldn’t result in the wrong words spilling out. Again.

He thought he hadn’t chosen too poorly when he said, “Thank you. I’d love to but…I would’ve liked to have been asked beforehand, Sherlock, not finding out about it like this, after the fact.”

“You can still say no,” Sherlock said, quickly. So quickly, in fact, that the words almost tumbled over themselves, pushed along and over by nerves. “If you don’t want to, you can say no.”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” John said, inching closer, sliding his arm around a skinny waist. “I just meant that…well, assuming things like that…”

“Not good?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“A bit not good, yeah,” the blond replied, giving a smile and a little squeeze.

Sherlock smiled in turn. “I’ll be sure that I ask while you’re in the room next time, I promise. But do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have any preferences. I think she means whether you’d rather be somewhere that’s big on seafood or a more rural area, things like that. That tends to be something she worries about with guests.

He paused, seeming a little embarrassed. “The thing is, if I don’t answer her now, she’ll be fretting about it to your face and Mummy fretting is…” He scrunched up his nose at that, with a funny but to the Gryffindor rather endearing result, and John got the message. He’d met Mrs. Holmes before, after all.

To be honest, though, he’d rather have a mum who fretted and worried about whether her son’s boyfriend would be alright with the menus in certain hotels, even if the entire idea was ludicrous to say the least, than his own mum, who could hardly be bothered with her children at the best of times. She wasn’t bad, as such, just…not caring. Dotty but caring he’d take any day.

He supposed it was different when you were Sherlock Holmes, though, and –

His thoughts came to a crashing halt when he suddenly had Sherlock Holmes, more specifically his face, right up close, head cocked as he seemed to be studying him.

“What?” he asked and tried not to sound defensive. He didn’t succeed entirely.

“How come I never noticed that you have different ways of wrinkling your brows depending on in what way you’re worried?”

John might have repeated his earlier ‘what’ at that’. He could’ve sighed or warningly said his friend’s name. Instead, he chuckled.

“Because you see but don’t deserve,” he said before he snatched a kiss.

He pulled back to be able to discern the look of mock-indignation on Sherlock’s face, which only made him grin.

Then Sherlock grinned in turn. I did observe a few things,” he said, his voice low but warm. He had turned slightly and leaned forward, so John was forced to lean back a little.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” He leant further forward still. “You must let me show you.”

“Oh, alright. Go on, then.”

With that, John tipped over and landed in the dew-covered grass, Sherlock on top, both of them giggling like lunatics.

* * *

John felt light, of the kind that only summer morning sun could bring, on his eyelids and squeezed them tighter in a futile attempt to stop from waking up and cling to the lovely, lovely dream he’d been having.

He’d been coming home to visit, no, stay with Sherlock for the summer, stepping off the train to be greeted by not only Sherlock but both of his parents, in an actual car that was unquestionable old but of a make that’d make it vintage, classy, and pricy.

Sherlock had huffed at his incredulity of the car, saying something to the effect of ‘honestly, John, it’s not like there’s a ban on wizards utilizing Muggle technology or something’ and had then slid his arms possessively around the blond as soon as he’d settled in the backseat next to him.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in the front seat, had only smiled once they’d seen.

If that hadn’t been enough of a clue that he’d dreamt it all, the fact that the rest of the evening before they’d been ushered off to bed, in the same room, was mostly a pleasant blur sealed the deal. Even more so considering that he’d ended up sleeping next to Sherlock. Just sleeping, mind. After a screaming match with his parents, the train ride coming there

Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether he liked that his brain was able to come up with such relatively detailed and long dreams that didn’t veer off into the utterly bizarre or was annoyed by it and the fact that he could remember it so clearly.

In that respect, he’d actually gotten together with Sherlock quite a few times before it actually happened. Once, he’d woken up and expected to turn over into the arms of his friend, only to be met with nothing but pillow and duvet.

So, to have it happen again wasn’t that farfetched.

Reluctantly opening his eyes, he squinted them against the sun. Then he squinted them in confusion.

He might have been away for much of the year since he was eleven, but he knew his own bedroom ceiling. To the last inch, really, the hours he’d spent at night staring up at it. This was not his bedroom.

Still not quite in the land of the awakened, it took him a bit to puzzle together that it hadn’t been a dream after all and this was indeed, Sherlock’s bedroom. Looking a bit to the side revealed…a poster of the periodic system, with, it seemed, scribbled notes all around it.

John couldn’t help chuckling inwardly. That would just figure, wouldn’t it, that that would be what Sherlock would have hanging up in his room?

Speaking of him, though, there was a distinct lack of lanky brunet beside John. Not that that necessarily meant much; one of the consistent complaints from his fellow Ravenclaws was that he would never sleep a lot and would keep others up with whatever he got up to not sleeping.

Stretching a little, though, he thought he felt something around his knees and down his calves that definitely wasn’t the duvet or any other type of bedding. He’d never known any bedding to be tickly.

Lifting his head in confusion, and lifting said covering at the same time, he saw a familiar, brown-haired shape there, face closer to his ankles than his knees. He hadn’t quite expected it to be that small, however.

_Of all the times for him to turn back, this wasn’t the moment I would have imagined. Can’t argue that he’s adorably cute like that, though, and that it’s rather a nice thing, waking with him nestled there._

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the otter lifted its head, not to look at him but to help heave itself up and round so that it could crawl along his outstretched right leg. As it did, it not only looked directly at him, it began to quietly chirp as it did so, its whiskers twitching ever so slightly.

“You do know that I can’t understand you like that, yeah?”

That technically wasn’t true, and Sherlock probably remembered perfectly well, but he got plenty of the lanky git assuming he could be understood by people, and by people was meant John, without actually having to explain himself. It’d do him good to…no, wait. It wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference, one way or the other.

The fact that he was completely ignored proved that point well enough. A little nose bumped against his as the creature reached, and flattened out on, his torso, which caused another chirp and a mew.

“Morning to you, too,” John said and couldn’t help his smile. He would say more but Sherlock turned suddenly to scratch his ear with his back paw.

John took the opportunity to move his leg a little, but Sherlock turned back around and chirped at him again.

“Alright, alright, hold your horses. I wasn’t going anywhere, I was just stretching.”

He moved his hand over, keeping it up to give plenty of warning that it was coming and not startle.

As soon as he spotted it, Sherlock mewed and stretched his neck towards it. When he made contact with the fingers, he pushed up into them, making content little noises.

John felt his heart swell at that, and even more so when it suddenly became imperative to first yawn hugely and then that both front paws were gnawed and cleaned.

He was about to snuggle back in, sleep still tugging a little at him, too, when he suddenly no longer had a semi-aquatic mammal on his chest but a lanky teenage boy.

A lanky boy who was only wearing his pants.

Granted, they’d gone to sleep like that but there was quite the difference between falling asleep with a warm, mostly non-clothed body next to you and having that same body plastered across your entire front.

Sherlock nuzzled closer.

“Morning,” John said again. “Slept well?”

“Mmh.”

Just thought you’d surprise me by being an otter when I woke up, I take it?”

“No.”

“…Right. Okay.” If he didn’t want to explain, John didn’t feel awake enough to press him.

“I didn’t plan to,” came the eventual sort-of explanation. “It happened all by itself again.”

“We really need to work out how and why. Perhaps your parents can help?”

“Oh yes, because that’d go down _swimmingly_ , knowing that their son is an unregistered Animagus. Also, please refrain from mentioning my parents when we’re in bed.” He made a face.

John laughed at that. “Fair enough. But you still haven’t explained why you didn’t register that you’ve managed to become an Animagus.” Sherlock had, before they’d left the Divination classroom, made him promise that he wouldn’t tell anyone that he had pulled it off, and John had in turn been offended at assumption he might. "I’m sure they would be willing to overlook that you didn’t have a supervisor if you’d come to them immediately – “

Sherlock’s eyes fixed him a glare. “Firstly, that’s a very fragile ‘if’ to hang quite a large, and more to the point, dangerous assumption on. The Ministry does not take kindly to people not adhering to rules like that, especially not when they feel like they’ve been outsmarted by someone still in school, and I do not particularly feel like being brought up for questioning.”

That sounded as though he was speaking from experience and so John decided not to press him on it. There was knowing things and past experiences about each other and then there was prying into a potentially sensitive subject without proper reason.

“Secondly,” the brunet went on, “I do not want to be registered. I find the thought of being undetected a far more useful tool to have than anyone being able to look up the markings peculiar to me in…in otter form.”

John sighed. “I really don’t want you to be found out either, Sherlock, and having you being brought up for questioning because you suddenly forgot to think about it in your headlong diving into whatever you deem interesting.”

“I don’t dive in headlong,” Sherlock protested, as though that was the important part of what the blond had just said.

“Yeah, you do. Often. And I don’t want that to happen, in case you’re caught and sent to Azkaban.”

“They don’t send people to Azkaban for that.”

_That why you were tense as all hell a moment ago?_ “I don’t want to risk it – and in any case, that’s not the only worry. You could be caught by a farmer or a nosy kid while you’re stuck in animal form and they’d wring your neck.”

Sherlock didn’t have a clever comeback for that, so John ploughed on. “Please, Sherlock. I know why you did it and why it had to be a secret. I just…I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I won’t be.” Dammit, if the man couldn’t be obstinate when he wanted to.

“Please. Can’t you…talk to Mycroft, at least? Get him to pull some strings? I know you’re not on the best of terms but…”

“He’ll lord it over me,” the Ravenclaw argued but John heard the sulkiness in the tone and knew he’d won. If he resorted to a tactic that had never worked on the Gryffindor, he’d conceded defeat.

“Only because he’ll be jealous you managed to become an Animagus without assistance.” He saw the glint in the pale eyes at that.

“That’s because he’s a lazy fat-arse and an idiot.”

“And you’re a gorgeous genius,” John said with a fond but exasperated smile, sliding his hands down to cup the swell of a buttock in each. “My genius.”

“Only yours, John. Always and only yours.”

That felt like quite the big promise to make, for all that Sherlock said it with such quiet yet vehement sincerity. John didn’t doubt his earnestness, though, not for a moment.

There was no gain to saying it if he didn’t mean it when taken in comparison to just keeping quiet, and Sherlock was hardly the type in any case to utter such frankly sappy sentiment merely for pleasing someone else. Not even now, with their change in relationship status. John had known him too long to think that he would.

So, the fact that Sherlock was expending breath on sentences like that actually ended up with as much, if not more, importance to the blond as the words themselves.

He wasn’t naïve enough not to realize that teenage romances weren’t usually the ones with the longest mileage, which didn’t bode well.

On the other hand, though, they’d been friends ever since they’d been standing in line to be sorted that first night at Hogwarts and John had defended him from someone who’d thought it was alright to bully Sherlock merely because their family had been ill-served, they felt, by Mycroft’s dealings in the Ministry.

Since then, they’d faced a lot of ups and downs in their relationship, some downs more tempestuous than others, some to the point that John hadn’t thought the friendship would survive. Yet…it had, and they’d emerged stronger on the other side, more often than not.

Point was, if their friendship could survive all they’d thrown at each other, quite apart from what others had thrown at them, over the years, then the notion of ‘always’ wasn’t that farfetched or utopian, was it?

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking again.”

“Fancy that. Whatever made me consider trying that out?”

“Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re thinking about useless things you won’t have any influence over and won’t end up being a problem anyway. And,” he added as he wiggled his body, “I need your attention on other matters.”

“Do you now? Whatever for?”

“John.”

“No, if you don’t want me to think, you’ll have to spell it out, sorry.”

“John!”

“Nope.”

“You’ve been denying me since that first time. We had to wait, you said. Well, I have waited. We have the time now. Please!”

John never was very good at denying Sherlock, at least in situations like this.

 

**THE END**

_**[The inspiration for the fic](https://willowgrovecreates.tumblr.com/post/172735856357/sherlohomora-hockeybella25-inneisme)   
** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...there we are. All done and finished, at last.  
> For something that I had originally planned as a one-chapter, 15k word story, this...went pretty much according to type, didn't it? I really shouldn't be surprised anymore. I hope it's been worth the read.  
> Also, since it's now finished, I've put a link to my inspiration in here, too. Please watch the video. I tried to recreate it as faithfully as possible, but please watch it.  
> Thank you so much to all who's been leaving feedback throughout, and I hope you've enjoyed this last bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I shall never not be nervous about posting a new work, especially in a new fandom (sorta, halfway, anyway).  
> Writing them at this age is...new for me, quite apart from the whole potter-aspect, and I am sorry if this shows. Apologies also if I have gotten minor details wrong, I did try to remember and look up what I couldn't remember.   
> Feedback is as always treasured, including the constructive criticism :)


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